


Mercy

by KittyPimms



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alien/Human Relationships, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mating, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6258469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyPimms/pseuds/KittyPimms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An outsider of his people, Rykkon had known since his birth that no mate would willingly join with him. But ordered to accompany a group of warriors to trade with the strange humans who had come to their planet, Rykkon receives an offer that he simply will not refuse…</p>
<p>“I’d like to go with you,” she repeated, now for the entire company. “There is nothing for me here.” She took a deep breath, and stood a little taller, her expression becoming one of determination. “I’d like to go as someone’s wife.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

The air tasted strange upon his tongue. The sky had turned a deep ochre, the forest silent of the usual hum of life.

The stillness unnerved him.

He should have gone with his brethren. The warriors, with faces tight and drawn, had buckled their weapons and departed the village, the great plume that reached from the Wastes and deadened the sky requiring investigation.

And yet, he was ordered to remain. He had apprenticed as a healer, as had his father before him, and that knowledge could not be risked—not when he had yet to choose a successor of his own.

At the moment he regretted his reticence, as now it meant he could not face this unknown enemy with those of his kin. The treaty with the Vashtni was tenuous, but thus far had proven true. And they possessed no such weapon that would be able to turn the sky and sour the very air he breathed.

He drew a little closer toward the Wastes, never leaving the protection of the trees. Okmar would be furious at the distance he had travelled already, demanding he remain within the confines of the village, and defend their young if necessary.

But the still billowing smoke unnerved him, a foreboding urging him to disobey when likely he would know a harsh punishment for his selfishness. A healer was allowed a modicum of autonomy—the very nature of his trade demanded it. But outright defiance…

His gaze shifted sharply from the desert beyond when a slight groan issued from his left, and he drew his blade, silently navigating the underbrush as he drew nearer. The groan became more of a sob, and he forced his breath to remain deep and even, his hands allowing not even a tremble at his yet unidentified foe.

The being was not what he expected, when at last he caught sight of it.

He noticed the blood first, red, and vibrant over pale flesh. He almost thought the creature dead already, if not for the sounds it emitted. It must not be functioning properly, as it did not seem to change colours to provide sufficient camouflage—he spotted it readily.

Any of the warriors would have been able to skewer it quite easily, without exerting even the least effort.

The sobbing continued, and he noticed the crooked nature of its legs as the creature tried to drag itself along the forest floor. His head cocked slightly to the side, attempting to determine if they were meant to appear in such a manner, or if this was yet another injury.

Tradition would dictate he act swiftly, ending its suffering cleanly and perfunctorily.

And yet... he was curious.

Its flesh appeared pliant, far more like his own than the exoskeleton of the Narada or the harsh scales of the Vashtni.

It truly was a pathetic sight.

He took an additional step forward, desiring a closer look, when wide green eyes landed upon him, immediately filling with fear.

Not an unexpected reaction. He wondered vaguely at its sentience. It appeared to be wearing clothing of some sort, though it was torn and ragged in places. Inadequate. Hides and leathers were far more efficient, and they proved invaluable during the cooler seasons.

It made the possibility of some form of higher intelligence even more unlikely.

Except that it continued to stare at him with those eyes...

And then its mouth began to move.

“Please, I need help... our ship crashed and I think...” it looked down at its legs and then back at him. “I think my legs are broken.”

The words—for there was no doubting that the lilting tones were in fact some rudimentary form of language—meant nothing to him. Yet still it persisted, tears beginning to well as frustration gave way into despair, likely further prompted by his refusal to release his weapon from his careful hold.

It did not _seem_ particularly dangerous, but many of the species of his planet were poisonous, and he would remove its head from its shoulders before he succumbed to such a cowardly death.

He studied the creature more closely, trying to ascertain more about its race. He was not so arrogant as to assume he had seen all that his world had to offer. He travelled little, and mostly from necessity, and he was not one of their traders. Perhaps they were cave dwellers; that would explain the paleness of its skin, wholly inadequate a protection from the double suns. It could be lost and in need of aid, but traditions still mandated that he end its life without intervention.

His knowledge of medicine belonged to his people and was to be used therein. It was an insult to use it otherwise.

And yet...

He could admit he was tempted.

Its features held a softness to them. The scalp was covered by a long mane, a strange counterbalance to her features. His people did not know the troubles of such things, their heads absent of such a nuisance—an invaluable asset as their skin melded with their surroundings to hide them from enemy and prey alike. Not completely, but he could not imagine attempting a hunt without such an ability.

He took another step forward, and the being continued to stare, a look of resignation about its features.

It was a small thing, really, almost resembling one of their young in stature. And if he had to suppose at its sex...

Female. With her large, wet eyes and mane that served no useful purpose. It did not seem possible that the men of any race could be so soft in manner—not when death was imminent.

She was still bleeding.

“Please, don’t hurt me. My ship crashed... we were just trying to find Deridia IV.” She glanced around her surroundings, her shoulders shuddering under the weight of her hurts. Or he presumed so. There were few females of his close acquaintance, and they were not prone to tears. Though if she was a female of his people, he would already have given her a sip of steeped manta root to soothe some of her pains.

He had no such thing on his person, nor would he be permitted so use it on one such as her.

“I don’t think we made it.”

And still her words continued to hold no meaning.

He continued to watch her quietly, indecisive. Tradition differed sharply with conscience, as it often did for him. His people were strong and noble—feared by those that would oppose them.

But at times like these, he questioned their ways. Was there no place for mercy?

Except, he was not trained as leader.

He was simply a healer.

And, if her legs were truly as broken as they seemed, perhaps it would be kinder to end her suffering before she faced starvation and death from being unable to care for herself properly.

He had a duty to his people.

He looked down at his blade, honed and carefully sharpened to prove swift and deadly, and the calm of decision overcame him.

And he took a final step closer to the female, her eyes wide with knowing.

And she screamed.


	2. Offer

Rykkon did not relish these missions. He understood their purpose, but the long trek from their village to Mercy was long and tedious, and the constant reminder of how little his brethren appreciated his company was grating.

But long ago they had come to recognise the necessity of a healer when they approached the human colony, and therefore he was tolerated.

But not welcomed.

Never that.

Which made it all the more necessary for him to foster additional skills to make his presence all the more valuable.

He adjusted his coverings, the heat from the Wastes never seeming to dim, no matter how many times he made this cursed walk. But it kept his flesh from succumbing to the burn of the suns, though his every exhale trapped more warm air against already irritated skin. It did even less for his temper.

“We are close,” Kondarr announced unnecessarily. Rykkon forced his eyes to keep from rolling, aided by the sudden wind that forced his inner eyelid to extend to halt the dust from impeding his vision.

There were seven in their party. Enough to carry the goods to trade with the colonists, and, more importantly, enough to defend themselves should they form a misguided revolt. There had been one such episode many cycles ago, but they had been remarkably well behaved since his people had reminded them of precisely why they lived.

Only upon their good graces.

The oasis was a thing of beauty when contrasted with the Waste surrounding it. White sand bled into green when the springs nourished the ground, soil and life nourished where else there were merely leagues of nothingness.

It was a fine prison for these people that could not quite be trusted. They knew nothing of how to travel here, and they could not cross the deserts, not with their meagre provisions.

Mercy, his people called this place.

He had heard the tales since boyhood.

Of the warriors who had found their paltry group, disoriented and many injured as they wandered through the sands, their flesh already pinking beneath the suns. They claimed to have come from the sky, but they had no wings, nor had any of his people ever seen any of them possess a skill that suggested they could levitate. But they were allowed some secrets. They could not leave where they had been escorted.

And when they had begun to trade meats and goods for the hasart beetles native to the desert, it seemed a beneficial accord between their peoples. Rykkon tired of treating the wounds that came from collecting the little beasties when members of his tribes still attempted their capture—fingers nipped and swelling from the poisons secreted from their bellies. But when crushed, they formed a fine dye that the females treasured, and so without doubt some would venture into the Wastes. Inevitably, they would have to be found and brought back to the village, at great inconvenience to the hunters, and he was not at all sorry when such thoughtless practices ceased in favour of practical trade.

There were more dangers in the Wastes than beetles.

One of the humans spotted them as they neared, ceasing all movement for a moment before running, a horn sounding not long after.

Their arrival was always greeted with such ceremony.

He kept toward the back of the group, adjusting his coverings when they neared the oasis. The trees offered protection from the oppressive sunlight, the pool of water cooling some of the air enough to be quite pleasing. At least in contrast to their walk.

He frowned as a man approached. They typically dealt with the same individuals, the rest hiding away in their huts until their camp had been vacated by his kind. Their leader was useful enough, always respectful and precise while managing their dealings.

This man, however...

He stood a slight ways off, his gaze showing an unchecked hatred for the approaching people. Rykkon, nor any of his kin, truly cared. As long as they behaved, and brought the beetles when necessary, there need not be bloodshed between them.

“When will you lot finally piss off and leave us be?”

Kondarr’s head turned quite deliberately to face the man, his eyes narrowed. The words may hold no meaning for him, but the tone suggested nothing other than insult.

“What does he say?”

The first time any of them had spoken to him directly this entire journey.

But he could not refuse to answer simply out of spite.

He hesitated only briefly. The words he knew, but the context seemed strange, and yet that was nothing unusual. He had learned to simply infer what meaning he could—his people would never know the difference.

“He would like to know at what point we will leave. One presumes he is thinking of a more permanent removal.”

Kondarr’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped nearer to the man, the company following close behind. They moved as one, here amongst potential threats. Even Rykkon knew the sense in that.

The man had an even more haggard appearance than the others, his clothes haphazardly patched and torn at the seams. His hair was long and tangled, almost resembling that of their females. Rykkon very nearly touched his own head to ensure that it remained perfectly smooth.

Kondarr’s eyes were narrowed, and he made to draw his short blade when they noted a woman by the man’s side.

“James, be quiet, they’ll hear!” She looked at the approaching company with obvious trepidation, but the man—James, evidently—merely waved off her concern.

“Like they can understand us without the translator.”

Kondarr drew the knife, and balanced it deftly between his fingers, watching to see if his little display garnered any respect from James.

It did not.

The woman backed away, clutching at one of their young. “Go get Prim. _Now_!”

Rykkon did not know what a _prim_ was, and he pondered if it was worth mentioning.

Kondarr’s pointed glance in his direction indicated that he expected a translation.

“The boy is fetching something. I do not know what.”

Anger darkened his features. “A weapon?”

Had he not already stated that he did not know?

“Perhaps.”

“Draw!” Kondarr ordered, all reaching for their blades and awaiting further command. Rykkon did so as well, unwilling to risk any of their lives with his uncertainty, though he did not relish the thought of killing any this day. “You dare to insult us?” Kondarr addressed the man, stepping forward and bringing his knife down in a smooth arch. He did not draw blood, his hand holding it steady against James’s unprotected throat.

Fool. What did he think would happen?

As a healer, Rykkon could appreciate that this man did not seem wholly healthy. There was a yellowing to his eyes that was uncommon to the colonists, and his hands shook, though the defiant look in his eye would suggest that it was not from fear.

“Do your worst, mongrel. Think it would be any less than you did to my wife?”

Rykkon’s brow furrowed at that, and he rubbed at his ridges to soothe them. No emotions—something that his kin did not seem to struggle with containing, while he felt like an unpractised youngling when his expressions came unbidden.

He did not recall any harm coming to their females for some time—at least, not while he was a part of the trades.

But he could not enquire further—not when he was ordered to keep his knowledge of the language secret.

The boy returned, not clutching a weapon in his hand, but the hand of a female.

Prim was a name?

He expected an outcry, for her to plead and beg for the life of the man beneath Kondarr’s blade, but she merely took in the scene with somewhat dull eyes. “What did you bring me for?” She glanced at them. “Did they ask for a witness?”

He realised now that the female next to James was older. Was Prim one of their offspring?

“No! Stop them!”

Prim withdrew her hand from the boy’s apparently tight grip, not drawing closer as she took in the entire exchange. “How? And for what purpose? So they can kill me too?” Her shoulders heaved a little, dropping down just as quickly. “If they want him dead, they’ll kill him. Nothing I do will change that.”

The calm way in which she stated that somewhat rankled Rykkon. She clearly had no intention of intervening, not even for one that was likely kin. Odd, and rather shameful.

He gave the human male another glance.

He did not find him to inspire any great protective feelings in him either. Kondarr could end his life cleanly, and that would put an end to the entire business.

It was simply strange to see one of their females agree.

Finally, their leader hurried forward, the strange device in his hands that took in their words and produced a tinny variation of his own. It was imperfect, some meanings lost, but it worked well enough. It once had seemed as magic, but he supposed as with many things, familiarity takes away some of the mystical enrapture with time.

“I’m sorry to keep you,” Desmond remarked, his eyes darting over to his people with a shake of his head. “I have been ill.”

The healer in him prickled, wanting to know more details, but he remained silent.

Kondarr did not release James, nor did he draw away the knife, but he made a quick gesture with his unoccupied hand to have Desmond bring the translator closer so he might be heard. “This man insults us. I will remedy his mistake by taking his tongue.”

When the words reached his ears, Desmond paled, his eyes going wide as he shifted nervously. “That would... James can be... You have to understand, he hasn’t been quite right since his wife... died.” Evidently, since she had been _killed_ , and by his people, but nothing more was said on that subject. He made a quick gesture toward Prim, urging her forward. “Collect your father and take him home.”

Desmond received the same incredulous glance she had given the female who had sent for her. “They do not appear ready to release him.”

Desmond gaped at her, his expression darkening. “Now, look here, I know things have been difficult, but you’re a member of this community—a colonist— and we protect our own. So go and get your father and we’ll have a talk later.”

None of this did he say into the translator, but Rykkon understood most of it. She was kin, then, and clearly did not share her leader’s position that her father’s life was worth her intervention.

He scanned her appearance, looking for some sign that James was unfit and worthy of her contempt—one of the few reasons of his kind to disrespect an elder in such a manner.

There appeared to be many.

Pale flesh was dotted with brilliant blacks and purples, others an ugly shade of yellow, very nearly as one of his people suffering from the _grundge_ and their skin revolted against a single colour, instead choosing to display all of them at once.

But he knew that humans possessed no such capability. She had a great many hurts, obviously none rubbed carefully with salve to soothe the persistent ache that would undoubtedly have accompanied them. Her skin looked dry and chapped, almost as if she had been working in the suns without adequate protection.

He supposed it was possible; her clothes were ragged enough that great holes formed at the seams, though other places were carefully mended.

Her deadened expression faded at her leader’s words, a spark of anger becoming prominent. She opened her mouth as she stared at him, arguably so she could refute any of his orders with a harsh word, but just as quickly as it appeared, so too did any sign of her ire.

Why could he not master his emotions so effectively?

He waited to watch her fruitlessly obey, to see her go to her father’s side and plead with Kondarr that he release him, but instead she moved a bit closer, her eyes flitting over the entire company.

“Would you take me with you?”

“Prim!”

She ignored the startled exclamations from most of her kin, even her father turning his attention from Kondarr so he might gape at her with unconcealed horror.

Prim frowned slightly, noting the translator in Desmond’s hands and reaching for it. He grasped it more firmly and shook his head, still too appalled at her suggestion to form a retort.

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, addressing them again, her words careful and clear as she tried to convey her meaning to a people she believed could not understand.

“I wish to go with you.” She pointed toward the direction they had come and back to herself, a sad sort of smile crossing her lips. “Or at least, I wish to not be here any longer.”

“What is she saying?” Kondarr asked, his tone conveying more confusion rather than anger.

“She...” For some reason quite unknown to him, Rykkon almost wished to keep the female’s desire to himself. He forced the words to come anyway. “She does not wish to reside with her people any longer. She wishes for us to take her with us.”

Kondarr actually laughed, a deep, grating sound infused with great humour—at least, the humour was plain to his ears. To the rest of the colonists, however, a great deal blanched and took a step backward. Kondarr withdrew his blade from James’s neck, pushing the man away with a heavy hand which sent him stumbling to the ground, the older female coming to care for him as he spluttered and groused in the dirt.

And still Prim looked at them all, waiting for any acknowledgement that they understood.

Kondarr pointed to the translator, and this time Desmond did not recoil, resignedly moving toward him and holding it upright, only for Kondarr to snatch it from his hands and use it himself. They may not know what mechanisms enable it to work, nor how to build such a strange device, but even they could plainly see that pushing the small button on the side was all that was required to make it function. Kondarr turned to Desmond. “You called upon her as champion for that man,” he nodded down toward James with barely concealed disgust. “Now you will let her speak.”

Rykkon did not know why he bothered to encourage her, since clearly he had no intention of granting her request. It very nearly angered him on her behalf.

He knew what it was to be rejected and scorned.

Prim hesitated only a moment when Kondarr gestured her to come closer, and he held the translator out steadily, not releasing it for her to hold. Her discomfort was obvious, though she admirably tried to disguise it. The sound the machine produced grated on his ears, and for a moment he wished he could pull the device away and bid her speak plainly. To him alone. But he forced himself to stillness, listening to her proposal.

“I’d like to go with you,” she repeated, now for the entire company. “There is nothing for me here.” She took a deep breath, and stood a little taller, her expression becoming one of determination. “I’d like to go as someone’s wife.”

The entire company looked to him for confirmation, certain that the translator had selected an inappropriate word.

But it was the same as had fallen from her lips, much to all of their surprise.

She glanced about their group somewhat uncertainly. “You... you do have wives, yes?”

“Prim, you _cannot_ be serious!” Desmond spluttered, his expression filled with unabashed horror.

“Girl, you get back to our tent or so help me,” James muttered from the ground, trying to find his own footing, pawing at the female beside him as he made to rise. Rykkon fought the urge to frown, pleased when Sakmet moved forward and offered him a swift kick that sent him sprawling once more.

Kondarr ignored the opinions of the human males and inclined his head ever so slightly toward Prim, confirming that mating most certainly existed. “We do. But why would we desire you?”

Her cheeks reddened at that, and Rykkon wondered if the heat was beginning to affect her adversely. “I can cook, and mend,” they all looked at her clothes dubiously, and she pushed at one of the tears in evident frustration at its very existence. “When someone isn’t tearing them, they are perfectly fine.”

Kondarr gave her a predatory grin, and Rykkon was quite certain it was more to frighten than to show appreciation for her supposed talent. “Admire what you see, do you? Want an Arterian husband between those legs?”

Her eyes burned, but she carefully tucked away her anger in order to address him without further insult. “I would be a wife, and I would have a husband. Naturally that would be a part of the arrangement.”

Rykkon found himself watching his kin more than the female, a frown tugging at his features. He did not like the way they suddenly assessed her, most with thinly veiled disgust, while others seemed to be considering the prospect.

Kondarr however, had apparently tired of their exchange. “We do not mate with your kind.” He turned his attention to Desmond, quite effectively dismissing her. “The hasart?”

Desmond cleared his throat, relieved that her apparently absurd suggestion had been so summarily dismissed. He gestured to some cowardly person hiding within the camp, urging them forward to produce the collected beetles.

Prim stood to the side, her shoulders somewhat slumped.

Lost.

That is how she appeared to him. As if hope had suddenly extinguished, and all that was left was the crushing despair of disappointment.

Was life truly so terrible for her here?

It was not his business. The life he could offer her in his village was not an enviable one, and it was foolish to even consider suggesting such an alliance.

But it had been made perfectly plain that he would never receive a mate, a wife, from the families of his tribe, not with his history. He had resigned himself to that prospect long ago, quite nearly convincing himself that his quiet solitude was not as terrible a thing as he had first imagined.

But he remembered what it was like when his dwelling held more than himself. When there were the low whispers of voices in the mornings, of food warming by the fire—of laughter.

When had he last laughed?

Cycles ago.

He did not know this female—not in the least. Had never laid eyes on her when he had come in the past. But as he imagined a life that at the very least included _someone_...

“Wait.”

He said aloud.

In the language of the colonists.

The entire group stilled, staring at him as he continued to regard the female.

She glanced up sharply, her brow furrowed and her gaze cautious. As right it should be.

“I will take you for a mate.”

He said the words carefully, the language thick with disuse upon his tongue. But she seemed to understand for her eyes widened—not with the fear that he expected, but with relief.

Strange female, this.

Kondarr turned to him, his expression dark. “You will be _silent_.”

Rykkon nodded, needing to say no more. Not when she understood.

Kondarr strode forward, his steps sure and angry even as he grasped Rykkon by the neck and drew him closer. He could have disengaged himself from his temporary commander’s grasp, but he remained still. He would fight for her, for the right to have her in his home, but there was no need to anger his kin more than necessary.

Already they would be furious.

“Why would you even attempt...” Kondarr closed his eyes, the question dying even as it was formed.

They knew why. None else would have him.

He did not want their pity. Never had. And most typically he received their disgust more than their compassion. Kondarr’s grip tightened briefly before he released him entirely. “You will have to go before the elders for this.”

“I am aware.”

“They may not be lenient. Not this time.”

Privately, Rykkon knew that they possessed little choice in the matter. Matings were between the individuals involved, and only under the rarest circumstances could another intervene.

They could attempt it—could threaten most assuredly, but he was their only healer. Valuable, at least in that regard. There was no need to pretend otherwise.

In his darker moments, he wished it had been different. That his place with his tribe was secured by more than the knowledge and skills he could contribute. That the communal fires were open to him, that the feasts and festivals could hold a shared joy instead of the cautious avoidance that met him in public.

Prim was staring at him, though she gave wary glances to Kondarr as well. She swallowed, obviously unsure of how to proceed when Desmond took hold of her arm. “Prim, you cannot be serious about this. Your place is here; with your people. You know this.”

She looked at him steadily, and Rykkon noted that her leader gripped a particularly purple portion of her flesh. She must feel a great deal of pain, though she hid it commendably.

Evidently he would be the one to tend those wounds—to cover them with salve and to take away her hurts.

The prospect did not displease him.

“I know no such thing,” she retorted, extracting her arm from his hold. “And if he will have me, then I suppose I need to get my things.”

She did not look back toward her progenitors, only glanced at him for confirmation. Remembering Kondarr’s previous order, he gave a deliberate nod of his head.

“You are a fool,” Sakmet hissed from beside him. “She could be a spy. They have revolted before and would happily do it again.”

Prim watched him as she moved a little ways off, casting him cautious glances as she did so, as if afraid that he would depart before she could prepare herself.

His company could leave, but he would remain. He considered his acceptance a promise, and he would hold to his word. She would be his mate, and it would be a poor beginning if his first act was to abandon her to whatever made her so desperate to leave.

He gave her another nod, and she finally quickened her pace and ran out into the Wastes.

She kept her things away from the oasis?

That would partially explain the state of her skin, though did little to provide a motivation for doing so.

Kondarr grunted as the hasart were produced, the bodies carefully contained within leather pouches—also provided by his people.

“And the food?” Desmond enquired, suddenly appearing weary as the Arterians unloaded their burdens of dried meats.

They tossed the food upon the ground, Desmond looking briefly dismayed before he gestured again for others to approach and help him hide away their new earnings.

Kondarr did not look at him again, merely grunting as he passed. “We will not slow for you.”

Rykkon bowed his head, tempering his true retort with a reminder that this man was currently his commander and therefore required some measure of respect. “Understood.”

He was reasonably confident that he could see Prim safely to his home should she prove a slow walker, but there was safety in their numbers that could not be denied.

It was for that reason that he hoped she hurried to collect her things.

His people moved off, and he followed, but only to the very edge of the Wastes, resituating his coverings now that the suns were once more fully overhead.

Prim had a threadbare satchel flung over one shoulder, her hand carefully gripping onto its strap—presumably so it would not simply fall apart under the strain of her meagre belongings.

She appeared truly worried when he was not where last she had seen him, her eyes searching the landscape fretfully before finally landing on him. He offered her an open palm, indicating her welcome as she came forward, though he made no move to relieve her of her pack—for certain he would mishandle it and cause all of its contents to spill upon the sand.

He was gratified to note that she had donned more clothing, including a scarf that wrapped about her head and shielded all but her eyes to the piercing heat. “I do not have a canister for water,” she murmured regretfully, eyeing the large expanse of the Wastes with dubious, yet determined eyes. “Do you think I shall make it to your home?”

Rykkon stepped away from the blessed relief of Mercy, striding purposefully away from the watchful stares of her people as his mate hurried to follow.

“Not all is as it seems. You shall be well.”

It was not the danger of the Wastes that truly worried him, but his people.


	3. Walk

“No.”

_“Yes,”_ Kondarr hissed, waving the cloth once more in Prim’s face. “Even you should be able to see the wisdom in it.”

Rykkon took a measured breath, willing himself to calmness. “It will frighten her.”

Kondarr looked at him as though he had suddenly grown a second head—or perhaps as if hair had sprouted from his head. His fingers itched again to check, but he forced them into stillness.

“What is more important, her comfort or the safety of our people when she reveals herself a spy and uses them to return and share all our secrets?”

Rykkon closed his eyes. He did not wish it to be true—that Prim, the female that had agreed to be his mate—could solely have agreed to their arrangement for the purpose of gathering information. He almost wished that his kin had not been waiting for them here and that their journey had continued on alone so he might learn more of her without distrustful presumptions poisoning their interactions.

Prim watched the argument with careful eyes, the words likely a meaningless melding of sounds to her untrained ear.

She came a little closer, and he noticed that the skin of her fingers was red and chapped, and what little he could see of the skin about her eyes was equally so.

She needed shelter, not to stand here quibbling.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her hand brushing at his arm in an unfamiliar manner. He nearly started at it, so different was her touch from any that he was used to.

Instead of giving him opportunity to answer, Kondarr acted, taking the strip of cloth and coming behind her, his fingers clumsy as he pulled away her head covering, revealing her hair and face to the suns, catching the seemingly delicate strands as he attempted to secure the blindfold.

Hurting her.

Exposing her.

Rykkon pushed him away with a growl. “You will not touch her.”

Prim pulled away the blindfold, her fingers shaking slightly as she looked between them, her eyes finally settling on the cloth before she addressed him. “Must I?”

He wanted to bite out that she most certainly did not. That he trusted her to keep their secrets and hide them well, as all of his people did. But she seemed to glean a fuller answer from the ensuing silence instead, for she nodded hesitantly before fastening it herself. “Will...” she swallowed, the tremble leaving her voice as she did so. “Will you guide me?”

She looked small and helpless—something not usually looked upon with favour within his kind, but in him it fostered a different sort of emotion. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

The desire to protect.

He walked forward, taking her hand and tucking it into his belt so that she had something tangible to hold. For a moment he considered holding onto her himself, but he would need both his hands free should any of the dwellers appear and require discouragement at attacking.

Kondarr grunted at the arrangement, though it did not seem to be fully from approval.

“Keep up.”

Rykkon did not bother to translate the command. She would go at whatever pace she was able. He would not drag her along, causing even more hurts to her already abraded flesh. That would not be their beginning.

Walking proved... difficult.

She did her best to maintain a normal gait, but she seemed to shuffle, her feet catching in the sands with great frequency, causing her to trip and hold onto him all the tighter, her head coverings falling lose each time. He would stop and allow her to collect herself, pulling at her scarf so that her skin was properly hidden away once more, finding the feel of her hair a fascinating thing.

“Do you...”

She halted with a shake of her head, instead continuing to trudge along behind him until he pressed her to continue.

“Do you require something?”

She vacillated, and he wondered why it troubled him that she would be so reticent to make a request of him, or even ask a question.

Evidently asking him to take her as a mate was simple to her, but the rest was not.

Odd human female.

“Do you have water I may drink?”

As if he would refuse her such a necessity.

He slid his pack off his shoulder, rifling through it until he reached his waterskin. It was less than half full, but he was unconcerned. Their conditions for travel would soon vastly improve.

But she shook it with wary hands when he placed it carefully between them, frowning slightly as she did so. “There will not be enough for the both of us.” She fumbled with the stopper before taking a tiny sip, holding it back to him, even though the tightness of her fingers made clear how difficult an action it truly was for her.

“You may have your fill,” he assured her. “We do not allow your people to hold the only source of water in the Wastes.”

Her relief was palpable as she took another drink, though he was ratified that he did not have to remind her to drink slowly. He did not envy the thought of having to pry the skin away from her.

She panted slightly all the same when she pulled the opening away from her lips, wiping her hand against her mouth to catch any lingering liquid. “Thank you,” she said softly, her tone rather strange. Disbelieving perhaps? “I did not expect to find one so kind when I asked to come.”

He very nearly frowned at that, instead masking the offence with a drink of his own.

“Then why would you make such a plea? If you thought you would be so mistreated?”

She did not answer at first, instead tucking her hand securely into his belt once more, seeming to gather the words as he replaced his waterskin and pack as they slowly trailed after the others.

“Hope I suppose. That just maybe you’d be different from my people in that way.”

Rykkon did not know how to respond to that, so they continued on in silence. Her flesh wove its own story of confirmation that her words were true. She spoke rightly that abuses were no great mystery to her. But he knew little of comfort, only of the kind of soothing that comes with a balm and knowledgeable hands in the art of healing, and he could offer her neither until they reached his home. So he was gladdened when at last they reached the tunnels, and this time he did not resituate her scarf when next it fell, instead letting it settle about her neck, the coolness of the passages a welcome respite from the enduring heat.

And if it meant he was better able to see her face, to attempt to interpret her expressions, that could only further his determination to understand her properly.

There was a fresh bruise upon her cheek that he had not noticed before—more a reddened strip of flesh than the darker abrasions that covered her arms, but he was certain it would worsen.

Evidently she had not been permitted to leave without a last complaint from someone.

He would query further as to her treatment, of who had done such wrongs against her and why she did not end them for their harshness, but he would prefer to do so when they were fully alone. He could hear the subtle stamp of feet up ahead, and though their words would be concealed within the colonist’s tongue, now was not the time for tenderness.

She appeared confused when they began the rather steep descent, the sands eventually giving way to stone.

“Where are we? Are... are the Wastes really so short?”

Rykkon warred with himself. To answer would mean betraying the secrets of his kin, and negate the usefulness of the blindfold entirely. But... she was to be his mate. And however abhorrent that might seem to both of their respective leaders, it meant something to him.

The opening to the tunnels was beyond her knowledge now that she had missed any of the markers indicating its location.

He halted and turned, his fingers undoing the knot she had constructed behind her head, careful of the strands that even she had caught within its confines.

He had expected her to show some sign of relief, but as he watched her blink, watched her brow furrow in confusion, he belatedly realised that the blindfold was wholly unnecessary.

Apparently her people were not equipped with the eyesight necessary to navigate the tunnels without some sort of light source.

He silently acknowledged that he was not disappointed that this meant she would continue to walk close to him, her hand still tucked around his belt.

“We are beneath them,” he answered at last when he began walking again. He kept his voice low to control how far it carried, lest any undesirable ears acknowledge their presence—his kin or otherwise. “A much more pleasant temperature, yes?”

“Yes,” she agreed, her tone thoughtful—as if her mind had already begun to drift from their current whereabouts.

The _tremnal_ had carved these tunnels with their very mouths, moving beneath the wastes as a water-snake might within a river. The bedrock was nothing to their powerful teeth, the sands merely an annoyance. Sightings of them were rare, and blind as they were, they were not overly dangerous. But still, it was necessary to be cautious.

“You are permitted to make enquiries of me,” he murmured. It troubled him to think of what her opinion of him must be—he who had accepted her offer of wife, but was fully a stranger to her all the same. Her hesitance suggested she feared his reprisal if she spoke too much, if she reminded him that she was there at all.

As if he could forget it.

And the others were now far enough ahead that talking did not seem so very risky. Not if their voices were low.

Prim did not immediately speak, and he did not press further, waiting patiently for her to decide which of her likely many questions was the most pressing.

Her selection surprised him.

“Do you have another wife at home? I did not think to ask.”

He very nearly halted in his next step, so surprised was he. “Do your people take multiple wives?”

Rykkon turned his head so he could watch her in the darkness, see her shoulders rise and fall in that same little gesture he had witnessed from her before. “Not exactly.”

He released a quick breath, trying not to grow frustrated by her lack of forthcoming information. “I do not understand,” he muttered, her hearing obviously better than her eyesight as she clarified for him.

“My father, for example. He was married to my mother but he... dallied with many other women. Took care of them, when he was able.” This last bit lacked the deadened tone she had adopted, an undercurrent of bitterness that was unmistakable. “Is it the same for your kind?”

Rykkon began to shake his head in denial, then recalled the gesture was fruitless as she could not see it. “No. We are... a possessive people. I cannot begin to imagine the kin-fighting that would begin if we practised such customs.” She sighed quietly, and he looked at her, trying to ascertain her meaning. “Does that gladden you or prove a disappointment?”

She did not immediately answer, and he wondered when he would begin to receive her initial thought rather than her carefully worded answers. This was not _her_ second tongue, where each phrase must be carefully chosen for meaning and clarity.

“I suppose if you had another wife, I would at least be able to ask her how she is treated. I would appreciate knowing what to expect in that regard. But I have seen how unhappy the women in my father’s life can be, so over all I would say... I am glad that your people are not like mine. Not in that.”

They walked in silence for a while, Rykkon struggling to find adequate words to relate his feelings. It was ridiculous to feel hurt that she should question his treatment of her—that she should expect the same abuses she had suffered in her own camp. But it was unfair to expect differently, not when they were likely raised to believe the Arterians were a fearsome and brutish race, incapable of compassion.

Which was partially true and glaringly false in equal measure. Did the colonists not live in Mercy? Were they not given food fairly and at equal intervals?

Yet he would not deny that the humans had also been killed by his people’s hands. Order must be maintained, as well as proper respect shown—another uprising would not be tolerated.

“Even if there was a female in my dwelling, you would not have been able to ask her anything,” he said at last—a safer subject while he wrestled with the offence she surely did not intend to bestow.

He glanced behind him and noted that her lips were pursed and her brow furrowed. “Are your women not permitted to speak?”

Rykkon closed his eyes for a moment in a bid for patience. The view she held of him, of his kind, was a sorry one indeed, and it was a wonder she had asked to come with him at all if she was capable of construing such a grim reality from his answers to her questions.

“They may make as many vocalisations as they wish,” he assured her, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “But none other in my village can speak your tongue. That is what I was trying to relate.”

“Oh.” She frowned, her head tilting to the side as she rubbed his belt between her thumb and forefinger, continuing to trudge obediently behind him. “Why can you?”

He stiffened. It was a logical question to follow, but one he was unprepared to answer. Not now. Not yet. Not when there were people about and she already thought so little of him.

She must have felt his tension for she fell back a bit, her own shoulders hunching a little as if she expected a blow to follow his displeasure, though she offered no apologies, no attempted platitudes—not that he would have accepted either in any case. There was no wrong in the asking, only in his unwillingness to speak of it, and he did not like to see her reaction—such a visceral and learned response from what she must have endured.

“Why did you not kill your abusers?”

She startled at his question, her eyes searching for his in the dark. She never released his belt, obviously believing that a landed blow was preferable to being abandoned in the tunnels.

“How do you know about that?”

Rykkon grunted. “Was it any great secret? If it was, you hid it badly.” His finger went to where her previous tunic had been torn, and the bruise had been clearly displayed. He touched it only lightly, but still she winced. “I am a healer,” he assured her, a promise for the care she would receive when they reached his home. “I would be a poor one indeed if I did not notice.”

She nodded at that, her lips a firm line as she seemed to be considering her response to him. He waited, aware of how his brethren continued on ahead, of how Kondarr would chastise them both for their slowness if they should reach the village in so tardy a manner.

Yet in that moment, he could not bring himself to care.

“My people are not very generous with murderers.”

Rykkon shook his head and growled low in his throat. “A stupid people, then, to confuse defence with shameful murder.”

Prim smiled then, a soft thing, barely a lift to the corners of her mouth, but a smile all the same. It diminished some of her pained expression, made her almost... pretty.

It was a strange observation to make when discussing such things, but an honest one.

“I will not argue with you there.”

Rykkon grunted absently. “Good, for you would lose.”

Her smile grew, and the darkness meant she could not be embarrassed by the intensity of his stare. Perhaps a bit more than pretty, despite her chapped and bruised skin. That would mend soon, regardless, with the proper care and attention she was soon to receive.

But only if they kept moving.

“Do you care for your wives then?” she asked quietly when they began walking once more.

Rykkon made a low hum in the back of his throat, considering. He was not privy to many of the private matters between the mates of his village, but he understood the general tenor of their wellbeing.

And why he was not permitted to have a wife to call his own.

“Not all are from... love.” That he knew. Mincel had only taken Kondarr to be her husband after her own had perished the previous winter. She needed his protection and his provision, and though she already had young, she was still an attractive mate—he could well understand Kondarr’s willingness.

“So you understand practical arrangements then,” Prim noted, the notion seeming to please her. He wondered why it should do so—did she not hope for a more affectionate mating? He did not know what he wished for. The concept of him with a female was still a strange one after knowing with such certainty that it would never be permitted. Yet here she was, of her own accord, and he could not deny that the idea of some measure of... good will between them was not undesirable.

There was a question that burned upon his tongue, but he forced himself to remain silent on that particular subject until they were well and truly alone, instead quickening his pace as much as he dared given her lack of sight.

They stopped twice more for water, Prim taking it a little less hesitantly each time, though she still gave it a rather dubious shake whenever he handed it to her. But she did not question him again, and he wondered if it was from trust in his word that there would be water yet to be had, or she was simply too afraid of his reaction to enquire further.

He hoped for the former, though begrudgingly acknowledged the very real possibility of the latter.

When at last they came to the pools, Kondarr and his party were already filling their waterskins, a few rubbing at their blades with cloths, evidently wishing to show some pretence of productivity when in truth they simply rested.

“What did I tell you about falling behind?”

Rykkon led Prim to the pool’s edge, disengaging her hand from his belt and easing her down to sit while he filled his own pouch. Before he did so, however, he took her hand up once more and brought it to skim the water’s surface. She resisted at first, but only a little, and she stilled completely when she felt the cave-cooled water beneath her fingertips. “You weren’t lying.” She said at last, and he tampered down the ire that rose at her suggestion that he would.

“No,” he confirmed. “Would you care for more?”

She accepted the waterskin with eager fingers, and he hoped he had not left her too parched all this time. It would not do to sicken his new mate on their first day together.

“Well?” Kondarr stated again, this time moving forward. “And where is her blindfold?!”

Rykkon stood, Prim carefully shielded behind his legs. “She cannot see anything—her eyes are inferior. It was unnecessary.”

Kondarr gave him a shove to the side, and the moment he took to recover was enough to allow his commander to wave his hand around in front of Prim’s face—far closer than he thought she ordinarily would have allowed, one pass managing to catch at the tip of her nose rather harshly.

She was not stupid. She must have known he was there before her nose was assaulted. The commotion and the jostling she had received when Rykkon moved was certainly enough to alert her to the impending invasion, and Rykkon saw the way she forced herself to stillness, even as her eyes were wide and clearly afraid at what else was to come.

It must be a terrifying thing, to be lost in the dark. She would know that the water was before her, its depth and width an unknown, but very real danger. And should she succeed and manage to escape Kondarr’s attention, she would simply be lost in a labyrinth of ever changing tunnels.

Rykkon shoved Kondarr away, and the other male landed partly in the water while Rykkon stooped to take Prim’s hand within his own. Reassuring, gentle. At least, he hoped it to be. But belatedly he realised she had no idea who had suddenly grabbed her, and he leaned closer to whisper, “It is only me,” before he returned his attention to his commander. “You do not touch another man’s mate,” he hissed. “Even you should know that.”

Kondarr glared at them both as he righted himself. “She’s not a proper mate, and you know it well.”

Rykkon frowned before he carefully quieted his expression. “Nor will I be. I doubt you would argue that either.”

Kondarr grunted in agreement.

“All of you, on your feet. It is time we get home.”

The order clearly included them both, but Rykkon was more concerned for Prim than in following a command. He crouched down in front of her, his hand coming to press along the delicate slope of her nose, looking for any sign of great injury. There was no blood, though there was a slight bump in her otherwise smooth brow and nose.

“Does it hurt?” he asked at last, needing to know if it was a new grievance or a remnant of past wrongs.

She shook her head, pushing at her eyes with her unoccupied palm—brushing away tears? “I am fine,” she replied steadily. An obvious falsehood.

“He would like us to continue so we are home before second nightfall. Can you manage?”

Using his hand as support, she found her footing and rose. “I am fine,” she repeated. He eyed her doubtfully. She shivered slightly and he realised that the dampness of the caves had gone from blessed relief to an unpleasant chill, though she had said nothing of her discomfort.

He rifled through his pack and produced a length of cloth, wrapping it about her shoulders as best he could until she finally seemed to understand that it was for her and tied it herself.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her head slightly bent—hiding from him. Was she uncomfortable to accept something of his?

The thought did not settle well with him. She was his mate, soon to be his wife, and he would do well by her.

Someday he would see that she believed that.

But now was not the time to press her. It was too public, the eyes of his brethren watching their interaction carefully, and his own embarrassment heightened to be faced with such scrutiny.

“You will tell me if you require a rest.” He made it sound more like an order than he probably should have, but she did not seem willing to vocalise her needs. Not to him anyway. Or perhaps not where the others could hear?

He hoped she would be more open when at last they were tucked away in his hut. He wanted to see that phantom smile once more upon her lips—wanted to know what it looked like when she laughed at something clever he had said.

But instead fingers found his belt, twisting and wrapping until evidently she felt properly secured so as to not easily be left behind, and they trudged along after his kin.

His dwelling could not appear quickly enough.


	4. Bruised

He should have expected the stares when they returned to the village. The young noticed first, as they often did, little eyes typically unbusied by too much work to be contained in a single rotation. So they would notice, and little feet would take them to their mothers, little hands tugging until she had noticed too, and word spread quickly that the traders had returned, this time with an addition to their numbers.

Prim had been gladdened when they emerged from the tunnels, though she had winced greatly when the light from the first setting sun nearly blinded her. He had offered to cover her eyes with the cloth until she could adjust more gradually, but she refused, untucking her fingers from his belt and walking steadily beside him—though still close. Still well within reach.

He likely should not have been so gladdened by that fact.

Yet now, with his kin watching with suspicious glares, he was relieved that he simply had to push her gently behind him as Kondarr approached him. “You will speak with the elders.”

Rykkon glanced toward Prim. She was exhausted, that much was certain, though she tried admirably to hide it. He had given her plenty of water, though she had refused the food, but even now she swayed a bit, her face tight and drawn even under the cover of the trees. She needed rest, not to face the many questions of the elders. At least, not now.

He opened his mouth to explain thusly, to inform Kondarr that his authority over him ended as soon as they returned to their own borders, but Okmar pushed through the slight crowd that had gathered, looking over them all with assessing eyes. “Rykkon,” he acknowledged with a slight nod. “Who do you hold in your protection?”

Rykkon turned. “A defector,” he remarked calmly. “And one who will be my mate.”

There were a few murmurs of disbelief amongst the onlookers, and Okmar shook his head with wizened disappointment. “This is not our way. You know this.”

It certainly was not. But their ways would provide no mate for him, no companion, no son to teach his ways with healing. And he wanted that. “You would deny me? You would cast me from your numbers? Who will care for you when you are sick? Who will deliver your young when the births prove too difficult?”

One female, round with child, shifted nervously. He would not deny her—would not deny any of them. But he was the healer, one naturally set apart, and he would take his rights as such. And if that included making space within his dwelling for the female tucked neatly behind him, with her grasping hands and quiet assurance of his protection, he most certainly would do so.

“This is too public a setting,” Okmar announced, gesturing for them both to follow him to his home, but Rykkon stood firm.

“I am afraid an audience shall have to wait until tomorrow. My mate is weakened from the journey and I would see to her needs first.”

The reminder of her new status as the healer’s mate—soon to be his wife—caused an uneasy stir among his kin. The elders had no rights between mates, could not comment, nor withdraw favour for the chosen one, and Rykkon hoped they remembered that when dealing with Prim.

“The morrow then,” Okmar acknowledged, his eyes most serious as they regarded him. “May she have a wife’s protections by that time, lest trouble befall her.”

Rykkon halted in his bow of acquiescence, though he schooled his features so as not to show his surprise. “You would threaten her?”

Okmar gestured to the people about him. “Threats are beneath a warrior. I merely observe that while you may do as you wish as our healer, it is difficult to protect a female from an entire village. Especially one you have not completed your bond with. Perhaps that will win some to your side, yes? Though,” he murmured, his eyes alight with pointed malice Rykkon had not seen before. “That did not help your father, now did it?”

Rykkon’s temper flared and he had to purposefully stop his hand from reaching for his blade. To cut. To maim. He knew the proper places that would cause the most damage—or, if he was feeling merciful, would only injure and not cause the enemy to expire.

He was not feeling particularly merciful.

Okmar turned away, apparently desiring to be the one to dismiss, and Rykkon counted five breaths before he managed to turn away himself, assuming rightly that Prim would follow as he made his way to his own dwelling.

He should have broken away from the company earlier and come here first. He could have dealt with Okmar in private, instead of parading his defiance in front of their entire people. Things would be even more difficult now, and any hope of acceptance for Prim or for himself, was nearly nonexistent.

Prim’s voice cut through his self-recriminations, low and tired, as she followed him through the darkened forest. The first of the suns had set and the second was quickly joining it, and he wanted them both secured before true darkness fell. He did not want to believe that Okmar would act tonight—would send an assassin to kill his new mate before she could truly become his wife. Their ways protected one of such status, would offer her some measure of physical safety even if they showed no particular kindness for her. And he would have her safe above all things.

“Where are we going?”

Rykkon gave a weary sigh. “My home. We will be there shortly; I know you are tired.”

She did not once more claim that she was ‘fine’, which he took as evidence of her particular degree of exhaustion.

But their night was not over, not with Okmar’s words still echoing in his ears.

He only hoped that she had been sincere when she spoke with Kondarr regarding her willingness to be with her Arterian husband.

 

He wondered what she saw when she looked about his dwelling. He had never been inside a colonist’s home, but he could not imagine they were particularly fine—not given the typical state of their clothing. The walls of his hut were covered in carefully organised shelves, herbs and medicines in varying stages of drying hanging from the ceiling in one corner above his admittedly messy work bench, while the bed claimed another of the walls.

“Will it do?”

There was little he could change should she find it distasteful, but the silence was making him anxious, as well as the knowledge of what was soon to come.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” was her only reply, and he could not quite make out if that suggested something good or not.

It was not the largest space, but it suited him well enough, as well as the families that had lived there before him. The roof was solid enough, heavy thatch carefully resealed every turn of the wet season, so she would be kept dry during even the worst storms. There was a pit for a fire, though now the coals were grey and dead from his absence.

He walked toward it, settling fresh wood and kindling before pulling out a piece of flint and setting it all to burn. Prim still remained watchful from just inside the door.

“You may come in,” he reminded her softly, feeling unease and anticipation in equal measure. “This is your dwelling now as well.”

Her face scrunched oddly at that—with distaste?—and he was momentarily stricken. He wanted her pleased, but that was ridiculous. This was all he had to offer, and she had not made enquiries before agreeing to come. If she was particular, she could have remained with all that was familiar.

Determined to make himself comfortable, he began undoing the many layers of his clothing, grateful to be free of the many twines of cloth that effectively kept the sands of the Wastes from rubbing at his skin. Prim made a sound of surprise but he ignored her, still offended at her apparent displeasure at his offering of home.

“Is there a latrine?” she asked quietly, and a part of him softened. Perhaps he had misunderstood, and she was more uncomfortable than ungrateful—she had not asked for any such thing during their journey, and he knew well that such needs were thoroughly distracting when unmet for too long.

Not bothering to retrieve his outer coverings from the floor, he led her back outside, down a path trodden down from many feet making the same trek throughout the seasons, to the outhouse.

It was not as elaborate as the communal one within the village, but he took care of it well. He showed it to her, and explained about the importance of cleansing her hands in the nearby stream, in case the colonists did not know such things.

This was met with more enthusiasm than his hut had, and he instructed her to return there when she had finished. “Are you certain of the way?”

She nodded her head, her eyes suddenly anxious, and he left her then, knowing that to tarry would only prove bothersome. And her privacy would be invaded quite enough already, without intruding on this as well.

The fire had caught nicely when he returned to the hut, and he knew from experience that it would soon warm the interior. He finished divesting himself of his travel-worn clothes, and grimaced at how dirty his skin felt from his journey. Prim’s must feel even more so, especially with sand clinging to her many hurts. It would be pointless to spread salve onto grimy flesh, and he fully intended to care for her properly.

He took two sets of cloths to dry themselves and returned to the stream, only to find Prim already there, scrubbing at her hands and face. She turned sharply at his approach, her eyes widening as she took in his lack of dress.

Choosing to ignore her reaction lest it be an unfavourable one, he dropped his change of clothes and the drying cloths beside the shore, stepping into the water until it reached his waist.

He could still feel her stare, and he chanced a brief glance in her direction.

She did not appear disgusted. Not exactly. Wary, perhaps, but he could not discern precisely what she thought and felt as she looked at his partially nude form. He would like to see her thusly—to look at the female that was now his mate and commit her appearance to memory. “You may join me,” he told her quietly, gesturing to the pile. “I did not bring more clothing, but you will be able to dry yourself.”

Her attention turned to the little bundle, before coming to rest on him again. Uncertainty filled him. “Are you frightened of me?”

Prim shrugged her shoulders. “Yes,” she confirmed, though her fingers began the process of unwrapping her many layers, belying her words.

An enigma, his soon-wife. One he did not hope to understand yet.

His eyes did not seem capable of straying from her form as more of her flesh began to appear—first one arm, then the other, followed by her own version of trous and tunic. A few bits of cloth remained twined between her legs and around her breasts—curious fastenings that she did not remove before she stepped into the water, shivering slightly as she did so.

The water was an agreeable temperature to him—pleasantly cool and refreshing after the trials of the day, but he watched her carefully for any sign that she proved incapable of adjusting. He would not have her risking a frost. “I will tend your wounds when we return to my dwelling,” he informed her seriously, though he focused on scrubbing away the remaining sand from his flesh.

She inhaled sharply. “What?”

He wondered if he had chosen the incorrect words. “Your hurts? I will provide medicine.”

She looked down at her arms, appearing worse now that she was closer. Dark, angry looking things, the one on her face having taken on a purple hue as the day progressed.

Prim seemed to consider something before she took a steadying breath and turned to him. She had gone a bit further into the stream, hunching down so that her breast coverings were submerged beneath the water. Was she very modest? He supposed he was so, around his people, but that came from shame rather than the preservation of dignity. Did she feel similarly?

“So, you really are a doctor, then?”

Rykkon stared at her, trying to remember this word but finding its meaning lacking. “Doctor?”

She seemed frustrated, but tried again. “You know medicines. Treat people. Heal them.”

“Ah,” he acknowledged, giving a nod of his head. “Yes. The only of my people. And I will help you too.” He had told her that already, and he supposed he was glad that she sought his confirmation rather than continue to remain doubtful—although he would rather she believe him at his first word.

She looked down at her arms then, her fingers absently tracing over the marks there before she looked at him again. “Are things really going to be different here?”

Her eyes were different than he had usually seen them. There were emotions to be found there at time, usually anger or annoyance while she dealt with her kin. But now there was a tenuous amount of hope lingering there, replacing her usually deadened expression.

He found it appealing.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “You likely will not believe me at first, but you will, given time.” Of that he would make certain.

She nodded, turning so she could dunk her head and attempt to release any wayward sand trapped between the strands. He wondered what it would feel like to help her, to allow the strange mane to flow through his fingers.

Later. With time, and maybe a little trust.

When they had both become satisfied with their washes, Rykkon emerged first, noting that Prim looked steadily away as he dried himself and dressed. “Do you find me displeasing?”

She looked up at him, startled. “What?”

“My form,” he reiterated. “Does it displease you?” He forced himself to sound calm, but it was difficult. Not when this mattered so very much.

“I...” She looked at him then, assessing, though there was no open disgust in her gaze—though it was difficult to tell precisely what she thought of him. Prim hesitated for a moment before she took a step closer, her arms coming to cover her breasts, the cloth now rather translucent after their soak in the water. “You’re... different.”

Rykkon stilled. Even to her eyes, he knew that he was an oddity.

He turned away, pain lancing through him. “I see.”

She was quiet, not offering anything more, and he pulled his tunic over his head—the better to hide from her. He had thought things would be different, when he took one of her kind as a mate. Apparently he was wrong.

“That doesn’t mean it’s bad, though. I’m sure I look very different to you too.” He glanced back at her, only to catch another of her shrugs, her eyes watching his carefully. “I just don’t see why it matters.”

Some grip on him loosened as understanding came. She did not mean different than his kind, only different than herself—her people. There was no mistaking that. Even now, his skin changing to meet the darkened hue as true night began to descend, his ears a sharpened contrast to her own rounded offering.

Did it really matter? It certainly seemed to for everyone else. He had known she was a strange one, everything about her had indicated that from the very beginning, but to hear it vocalised so clearly...

“You are very unusual,” he remarked, and he stooped to pick up the other cloth and hold it out for her. She took it with only the briefest hesitation, her expression rather peculiar.

“I hear that a lot,” she murmured softly, a smile playing about her lips. It was not a pleasant thing to behold, not when her eyes held so little life, so little humour.

He had hurt her, somehow, and it did not settle well with him. Apparently they had much still to learn of one another.

He watched her rifle through her pack and pull out a worn set of clothes, thinner and in more disrepair than even her others. He would have to make her something new, something with tight seams and warm collars so she would not shiver as she did so now, fumbling as she did to undo the wet cloths that still twined about her, allowing them to drop to the ground before pulling on her tunic.

He swallowed thickly as her delicate curves were exposed, marred only by the obvious signs of abuse that covered her ribs. One was most certainly damaged, if the black welts were any indication of the severity of injury.

It made him glad of his skills, that he could offer her as measure of comfort.

She would need a brew of manta, something to ease the pains that surely plagued her, as well as any soreness that she incurred from their long trek from Mercy.

He was slightly disappointed when she was once again clothed, though he was glad to know that he had least found his new mate’s body an attractive thing. He had given it little consideration when he had accepted her, knowing that the companionship another would bring would be worth any potential unpleasantness during their actual mating. But she had been crafted well, and his body evidently was ready to identify her as female, regardless of her differences.

Perhaps she was correct. Perhaps it really did not matter.

“Come,” he beckoned. He had no belt to offer her to hold, and he did not know how well she could see in this relative darkness, so he held out his hand instead to lead her back to their dwelling. She looked at it for only a moment before she took it with tentative care, silent and yielding as much she had shown herself to be.

“You’ll really give me something to help the bruises?”

They walked back toward the hut at a slow pace, Rykkon rather enjoying the feel of her hand in his, not as smooth as he had expected but welcome all the same. And they had hurried enough this day. “Does that surprise you?” It troubled him that it would.

“They kind of just ignored them,” she answered in a mumble, her gaze focused on the forest around them, and he wondered how much she could see. The trees were dense here, making the path all the darker, but he knew it well and they entered his home again in short order.

“Your people have no healers?” Prim hesitantly sat her pack down just to the side of the door, looking to him for approval before releasing it. He gave a nod of encouragement. “This is your home now, as well. You are permitted to make use of my things and settle your own where you like.”

She still did not appear wholly convinced, but did follow him to the drying line to add her strips of cloth to the larger articles, now damp with stream water. He situated them with care, helping to do the same with hers when the line proved too high for her to reach. “We have a doctor, but he couldn’t do much for me. After a while, he just said to come if I thought something was broken.”

It still seemed incredibly stupid to him that Prim would not have been permitted to kill her abusers without facing repercussions, but he remained silent on the matter. He did not wish to cause offence. Not tonight.

“I will need to see your injuries in order to treat them,” he reminded her with as gentle a tone as possible. He could not be threatening, not in this. Even the most brave could feel vulnerable and exposed when their clothing was removed by one who had been an enemy only the previous sunrise.

Prim took a deep breath. “Will you be looking as a doctor or as a husband?”

A reasonable question, though he was not certain of the answer. “At the moment, a healer. But later...”

She took another breath, and he searched her eyes for any sign of fear or rejection. There was none, but nor was there any particular desire. It bothered him, but he understood.

She reached for the hem of her tunic and pulled it over her head, and he offered her what privacy he could by turning to hang a pot over the fire so he could begin steeping the manta root for her. There was no place for pain now. Not for her.

He retrieved the salve from its place on the shelf, opening the pungent jar and showing it to her. Her arms were crossed over her breasts, though her cheeks remained unpinked. Good. He had no desire for her embarrassment. “It should help ease the ache,” he explained, “and aid the healing. Will you permit me?”

She glanced at the contents perhaps a little dubiously, but ultimately she gave a slow nod of her head in assent. “Yes,” she confirmed. “Though it’s only my ribs that really hurt.” He reached out and pointedly ran his finger across her cheek, the swelling already beginning across the delicate bone. At that, her cheeks finally darkened. “Maybe that too.”

He decided then not to trust her assessment of which hurts were bothersome—not uncommon amongst his own people. The females were more willing to divulge an ailment, but the males acted as though any such confession was an offence to their dignity. Therefore he had learned to act upon his observations, and if those had proven faulty, he would simply consult the mate more willing to speak to him in truths.

But he was Prim’s mate, so it was merely his judgement he would have to trust in this instance.

He dipped his finger into the jar, gently moving her arm from around her breast so he could see precisely how far the bruising ascended. Black and angry, it was little wonder that this was one that she should admit caused her pain. He smoothed the paste over each mark, wishing he could return to Mercy directly and find those who had hurt her. He may not have been able to act earlier, not when she was yet to be his, but it was different now. There was one who lived—perhaps many someones—who currently drew breath who had hurt her.

If ever he was called upon again to oversee the trades, _James_ would not be so hale and hearty upon his departure.

Prim hissed at even his more tender ministration, and he hummed lowly in his throat to soothe her. “It will help,” he promised.

He glanced away from his work to look at her face, and tears were glistening in her eyes, though they did not fall.

“I will bind your ribs, which should ease some of the discomfort. You must also rest, lest any cracks turn into breaks and you puncture something vital.” She was staring away from him, studying some speck upon the floor, and he waited patiently until she looked at him properly. “Do you understand?”

Her lips thinned. “You are not marrying an invalid.”

His head cocked to the side, considering her statement. The last word was unfamiliar, but her tone suggested something distasteful. “I am taking you for a mate, and you are presently injured. I fail to see the issue.” Except that Okmar had made it perfectly plain that Prim could not remain here simply as a mate, but as a wife. And tired though she was, bruised though she might be, there were certain protections that were essential that would require one more act of them this night.

He wondered if he should mention it. Should explain the reasons for his insistence upon their joining beginning the night of her arrival. But the words stuck upon his tongue, and he felt clumsy and inadequate at addressing such an intimate subject. He was a healer, and it shamed him that he should feel such a fool to his chosen mate.

He returned his attention to her wounds, tending to her cheek and smoothing a balm upon her arms where it was evident a male’s fingers had wrapped tightly about her.

There would be no more of those. She would be treated gently here, and the marks would fade until she was pale and whole once again.

He bound her ribs as promised, using a clean length of cloth, tying it tightly so as to secure the bones that should never have been forced to withstand such strain. “Are there any on your lower region?” he asked quietly. She sighed, before she made to undo the tie that would drop her trous, but he saw the subtle bowing of her head, even as her face maintained its carefully neutral expression.

He halted her before they could fall, and he handed back her tunic, easing it over her head, the length obscuring her most intimate places but leaving her legs available for him to tend. There were fewer here, a few on her calves that were pale and small, more akin to ones that appeared from a fall rather than a kick. A much larger one blossomed across her thigh, and he could easily imagine it coming from just such a reason, and he stroked over it softly with his balm, hoping it would soothe, hoping it would comfort in ways that she feel no more pain.

By the time he had finished, the water was boiling in the pot, and he placed a sprinkling of shredded manta into its depths, swirling it idly as he tried to gather his thoughts.

His task seemed at odds with his knowledge of healing. She needed rest, rather than to mate, but if he faced the elders tomorrow with her not as his wife...

“Are you upset about the bruises?”

He frowned into the brew, straining it into a cup before he turned and handed it to her. “Of course. My mate has suffered a great wrong by her kin. They should fear much from me.”

She looked up at him in surprise, but did not object to his statement.

“But what troubles me at present is that I do not know... there is no way I may present what we must do without you reacting poorly.”

Prim took a sip of the manta, her nose crinkling slightly as she considered the taste. She must not have found it too objectionable, for she took another. “You could just tell me,” she suggested reasonably. “I’m not someone that’s easy to shock.”

He wondered at the kind of life she must have led that would make it acceptable for a new mate, strange and foreign to her in all things, to inform her that they must mate.

And yet he did.

 “I am troubled for I must tell you that it is necessary for us to solidify our mating, our _marriage,_ ” he clarified, “before the first sun rises. And I know you do not want me.”

And he wished that anything in her expression might suggest that he was wrong.

Yet it remained as placid as it ever was.


	5. Consummate

“I thought I’d already told the other one I was prepared for... relations.”

Rykkon continued to watch her warily as she took increasingly longer draws of the manta. He wondered if it would affect her differently than was usual—it was entirely possible with her differing physiology. “I do not wish to dishonour you. I would not do it at all if it was not important to your continued safety.”

Her head tilted to the side. “Why wouldn’t you? Don’t you want to?”

Rykkon looked at her pointedly. “ _You_ do not want to. That is what we have established.”

Prim gave a little snort and shook her head. “No, we haven’t. But if it makes you feel better for me to say it, I don’t _not_ want to. But I am tired and would like to sleep, and if it’s important we do it tonight, I’d rather we just get on with it.”

Rykkon did not appear wholly convinced that he should proceed and she sighed. “You afraid you’re going to rape me?”

He flinched from the word, the context and her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. “I do not wish to dishonour you,” he repeated.

Prim’s lips thinned. “I’m not a very romantic person. Never have been. You certainly won’t be raping me, even if I’m not overly enthusiastic. Do you want my permission? You have it. You’re... you’ll be my husband.”

This was said a bit more doubtfully, and he considered it. “Do your people marry in other ways?”

She shrugged again. “I was told that before we came here, weddings were large affairs. Lots of decorations, lots of people—never saw the point of it, really. Now Desmond just has us recite some vows and the couple goes off to their tent. Simple.”

Rykkon frowned. “Would you have preferred that? To do it in the ways of your people?”

Her look became slightly incredulous, and he wondered if the manta had loosened her tongue, as she seemed to be speaking more freely with him. It did not displease him. “If I had cared for my people’s ways, don’t you think I’d still be there?”

He grunted in agreement. “You speak rightly.” She had not returned her trous to her person, and they both sat on the long workbench, her tunic riding high so her legs were clearly exposed. They were finely shaped, pleasing to his eye, and it still troubled him to consider what she truly thought of his appearance.

She insisted it did not matter, just as she insisted she held no objections to what would soon transpire, but that did little to quiet his lingering reservations.

Prim ran her fingers over the lip of the cup. It was not one of his finer offerings as he had simply taken up the first his hand had reached, the rim holding a slight catch from where he had not managed to smooth the clay properly. He had been younger then, full of knowledge in many things, yet in this he had proven clumsy and unprepared.

But he had learned.

As he would in this—this treatment of his soon-wife. What she needed. What would make her soften, make her enjoy his company.

He would simply have to believe her that to accept him tonight would not be truly an invasion. Perhaps it would not be the most pleasurable, that she held not great desire for him, but that could come, with time. With knowing.

He only wished he had more experience so as to ease any discomforts. Though, he supposed, he was not entirely certain that being with one of his own kind would be completely similar, so perhaps that was a foolish wish.

“How do your people do it?” she asked him finally, still inspecting the slightly inadequate cup. “Get married, I mean.”

“I announced our intention to mate before the village. Then we will...” he tried to remember the word she used. That act had many words, some held with varying degrees of reverence or derision, and he did not wish to cause offence. “We will have relations together. Then my people will recognise that we are one, and you will be respected.”

She gave a slight sigh, looking suddenly terribly sleepy, and he wondered at the wisdom of allowing her to sleep for a while.

But she was placing her cup upon the workbench, and a tentative hand reached out and the same finger that had been running over the rim now skimmed across the back of his hand.

Perhaps the manta had made her a little bold as well. It did not displease him.

“Can I know your name first? Before we... we relate?”

He startled, not realising that she had not gleaned his name from Kondarr’s use. For all that he did not know of her, she was equally blind—if not more so. He at least had an understanding of her people, if only a slight one, while she knew only of the traders who appeared in her camp, tall and burly in their hides as they occasionally demonstrated their authority through a show of force.

And yet now she was consenting to lie with him, her only request to first know his name.

It humbled him.

“Rykkon,” he told her, his voice low. Her finger stilled upon his hand when he spoke and she apparently considered the name, before it began to make its careful circles once again. “My apologies. I did not realise you had not heard Kondarr speak it.”

A little smile touched the corners of her mouth, barely there, but perceptible. “Your language is difficult to make out.”

“Is it?” He had not given that a great deal of consideration, but he supposed it was a harsher language than her own.

She nodded. “So I know your name, and you know mine. Should we...” she looked over to the bed and then back at him, her intention clear. He followed her cautiously, waiting for her to change her mind, to tell him that she required more time. But she kept her hand on his, and she was the one to lead him to the bed, her only hesitation coming when she made to settle upon it. “Is it all right that I be here?”

He skimmed his fingers over her hair, still damp from the stream. “I would not have you on the floor, Prim, not as my guest, and most certainly, not as my wife.”

She shivered then and he worried she was cold, so he pulled back the hides and blankets that warmed his bed, gesturing that she should enter first.

He was proud of his bed. It was comfortable and large, and from the way she wriggled and sighed, she found it agreeable. He did not immediately join her, instead choosing to watch her grow accustomed to it with some amusement. Eventually she noticed his hesitation, and looked up at him, her cheeks growing pink as she fiddled with the edge of a blanket. “I don’t really know how to start.”

“Nor do I,” he confessed. He was curious about the feel of her flesh against his, however, and though he should likely remain covered—she seemed to prefer him that way—his fingers found the edge of his sleep-tunic and he removed it before coming to lie beside her.

It was an odd thing, having a presence in his bed. He felt more aware, every brush of her arm against his own, the feel of a softened hide against his leg where the trous had exposed an ankle.

“Do your people kiss?” she asked into the quiet of the room.

A memory assaulted him, one long since pushed away. A loving female, gentle and kind, kissing his cheeks, rounded still from his youngling days, as she whispered how much she loved him. That he was a good son, and not to listen to any of the hurtful words that were spoken to him. He had associated such things with motherly affection, but he wondered if they held significance in this as well.

He rolled over, careful to keep his weight from her lest he press on any of her bruises. “Do you feel any pain?” he asked, simply to be certain.

She shook her head, her eyes perhaps a bit wide, the darker parts larger than he had seen before. “No.”

“Good.” He stroked his finger along her cheek, watched it blossom into pinkness once again. He would need to put more salve onto her the chapped portions—to make her soft and whole after too much exposure to the suns. “There are kisses,” he admitted, wanting to attempt them but also unsure of their welcome. “Would you like to try?”

She shrugged, a little stilted given his position over her. “I suppose. Might speed things along.”

He wanted to recoil, being reminded so that she was tired, that this was likely more a chore than any desirable event. He wanted to savour, to explore, but he also did not wish to be a bother. Not when she had been so clear as to her fatigue.

And he could admit, perhaps only in the farthest corners of his mind, that he was a little hurt that his mate should wish to end things quickly.

He would save his kisses, he decided. Until she was more receptive, more willing to reciprocate.

In the few times he had allowed himself to imagine what it would be to mate, to feel the pliant female form beneath him, he had not conjured the feeling of awkwardness as he wondered at where to put his hands, what places were acceptable to touch—when would he become tedious when he lingered too long.

He felt the tips of her breasts brush against his chest, and too tempted to refuse them, he allowed his hand to splay across just one, soft and delicate and lush against his palm, covered though it was by her tunic. His thumb stroked gently, wondering at the texture, so different than he had expected. The females of his tribe were typically only this size when they were milking mothers, and belatedly he realised he had neglected a rather pertinent enquiry.

“Do you have any young?”

He hoped she did not. He would have accepted any with little hesitation, though it would be even more difficult to keep them all safe from the displeasure of his tribe. But to think of her abandoning them so abruptly was repulsive, and his opinion of her would have deadened immediately. He knew what it was to be left alone, and he would not wish it on any young one, his kind or not.

Her brow furrowed for a moment. “No,” she related, honestly but with some measure of confusion. “Why would you think that?”

He could explain about their differing physiology, but he was more preoccupied with relief that she came to him freely, without sacrificing the tender state of any young.

“It does not matter,” he told her, allowing his hand to release her breast with only some small moment of loss before it drifted lower, pushing up her tunic and exposing her to the slightly too-cool air of the hut.

She shivered again as his fingers brushed against her thigh, and he shifted, pulling the blankets over them both so she would not be cold.

“Better?” he asked, and she nodded, though she did not quite look at him.

He would have pressed her, would have tried to see more to her comfort, but her earlier reminder that she valued haste over such things prompted him to acquiesce, only the slightest taste of bitterness on his tongue as he did so.

But the feel of her stopped him short. He was surprised when his hand crept over a tight patch of curls, the texture vastly different from the mane upon her head. But she had agreed to accept him with all his differences, and he would be willing to do the same.

And some secret part of him might have even found her difference exciting.

But as he explored further, tracing over skin so strange and new to any he had felt before, the rasp of unslickened flesh was undeniable. And he grew certain that to take her, to press into such delicate tissues when she was so dry and unprepared would only cause her pain.

And he would not be the cause of that. Not when he had promised her.

He removed himself from the bed, and she looked at him in surprise, a measure of hurt present before it was quickly concealed. “Changed your mind?” she asked resignedly, staring up at the ceiling as she drew the bed coverings up around her shoulders.

He went to his many shelves, considering which would serve his purpose best—something to ease the way, something that would not further irritation to tissues about to be abraded.

Rykkon made his selection, returning to her side and showing her the little pot.

“You may prefer to have this over quickly, but I prefer not to leave you bloody by the end of it.”

Her face flushed and she looked away from him as he sat beside the bed, and he urged his fingers not to shake as he spread a generous amount between her legs.

This was not how he had imagined his first mating. Not at all.

Not with her looking resolutely away from him, not with her glistening from burn paste rather than want of him.

But he supposed, with grim humour, that their future could only improve.

She was tight around his finger as he made sure she was as prepared as he could make her, and he watched her face carefully for any sign of discomfort. She did not look pleased, but she did not push him away, did not ask him to wait, to kiss her, to find some small moment of love in this midst of their joining.

He pushed away the hurt and reminded himself that she was fatigued, the manta dulling her senses. They would have a lifetime to perfect this particular art.

He resituated himself over her when at last he was satisfied that she was as ready enough to receive him, wishing that he had more certainty that such was the case.

Despite his reservations, the feel of her, the knowledge that he had been given permission to _relate_ to her was enough to ready his own flesh, though he did not feel the overwhelming urgency that he had expected. Not when she still would not look at him, and it all felt too clinical to be considered fully binding.

She had asked if his people knew of matings without love.

There was a difference between knowing of them and experiencing one, and he became all the more determined that he could not spend the rest of his life with her in such a cool manner.

But she was tired and wanted to rest, and he would view this as his first measure of protection over her and not a reflection of their cycles to come.

He entered her slowly, gently opening her flesh and coaxing it around him lest he pull or tug something unnecessarily. She still stiffened beneath him, still closed her eyes as she hissed in a breath, and he could only imagine what she would have felt if he had attempted this action when she was so dry and unprepared.

And felt tremendous guilt at the sheer pleasure that shuddered through him to be so tightly embraced.

“Do you need me to stop?” he asked, gritting his teeth as he tried to fight for calm.

She was too warm, too soft, everything that was glorious and unexpected. He wanted to move, to push, to prod at her, but she still appeared pained, and he could not have that. Not with his now-wife.

“I’m all right,” she confirmed at last, her voice not as strained as he had expected. She opened her eyes at last, the tight cord of her muscles relaxing, and he was glad that he had given her the manta if it was the reason she was able to do so. “Are you going to move?”

He grunted, giving an experimental push of his hips, closing his own eyes at the pleasure that came with it. He held himself above her, wishing he could crush her body to him as he found what rhythm was most pleasing, but he was mindful of her bruises, knowing that would have to wait. But he leaned down and nuzzled his face into her neck, her hair, his mouth brushing at the flesh there in not quite a kiss.

And when he felt the tightening of his belly, as he tensed with expectation of the release to follow, he was almost certain that he felt a whisper of her fingers against his arm.

Only to find it gone when he recovered himself enough to once more have proper awareness of his surroundings.

“Have I hurt you?” He hated that he needed to ask, wanting to think it too preposterous to even require the question, but there was no mistaking her wince when he had entered, and he would not have her suffering on his account.

“It’s fine,” she insisted, tugging at the blanket even as she pushed down her tunic.

He frowned. “It is not ‘fine’ if I have hurt you. Would you like another cup of manta?”

Rykkon could not allow her to imbibe too much, but she would be fine having perhaps another half-cupful.

Prim rolled to her side, and his arms felt empty, his body too cold no longer having her pressed against him in the most tempting of ways.

She was tired.

And weary.

And he wished he could have waited.

“Really, it’s fine. It didn’t hurt any more than I expected. You were very... gentle.” Her voice was odd, rather detached, and it troubled him.

He should not touch her, should simply leave her to rest and they could discuss everything more come morning—possibly not until second sunrise if the dark circles beneath her eyes indicated how much sleep she truly required—but he felt uneasy and needful, an unexpected combination to be certain. He reached out and grasped her shoulder, pushing gently yet insistently until she lay flat against the bed and he could look at her properly.

“Do you hate me?”

It was not what he meant to ask. He was going to enquire as to her wellbeing, check her for any tearing that would require tending. With some embarrassment, he already realised he would need to fetch her a cloth and a bowl of water so she could cleanse herself before sleeping. He chastised himself for feeling so—there was nothing more natural than the fluids they exchanged during their mating. But then, there had not been a true exchange, had there? There had been no answering slick to meet him, no desire in her eyes as he had taken her, and now she was even more cold and aloof.

Had he ruined things already?

Prim blinked at him, seemingly in surprise. “Hate you?”

Rykkon sighed. “For this. For taking you when you do not want me.”

She chuffed out a breath, tugging at the coverings until they were tucked beneath her chin. Her fingers still stroked over the edges, and he vaguely wondered if having such comforts was a new experience for her and thus something to be treasured and savoured.

Precisely how he had wished to treat her.

“I don’t hate you, Rykkon,” his name on her lips sending a strange thrill through him. “I don’t know why you keep saying I don’t want you, because I made it very clear I wanted you for my husband. And since this was the way of your people to make that happen, clearly I’m fine with it. I _am_ fine,” she reiterated, her voice firm even through her ever increasing exhaustion. “But I _am_ also worn out and just... please, can’t I sleep now?”

He wanted to press, to explain his meaning so she would understand that he only desired to be a good, kind mate that would provide his wife with pleasure in equal measure, but he hesitated.

Perhaps their females were not gratified during such joinings?

There was much he did not understand, and she was thoroughly exhausted, and he was a brute for keeping her from the rest she desperately needed.

But he also would not allow her to awake sticky.

“A moment,” he told her, and he very nearly saw her whimper as she burrowed further beneath the blankets, and he felt a moment’s guilt. But he knew it was best for her, so he fetched what was necessary and held out the cloth to her.

Only for her to blink at it without understanding.

“You should wash,” he said at last, knowing he was perfectly capable of doing it himself, but thinking she would prefer that his hands be nowhere near those delicate places. Not now.

Her cheeks pinked, and she dampened the cloth before bringing it beneath the blankets, and though he should give her privacy, turn his back and busy himself elsewhere, instead he merely turned slightly away, enough that he could still watch for any discomfort to flit across her features as she washed.

There was none.

And some part of his guilt lessened.

She handed him back the cloth, and mumbled, “Thank you,” before she curled into a ball beneath the bedding, her eyes closed tightly, and he finally let her rest.

He stared down at the cloth in his hands, his throat tight as he saw the smear of blood evidenced there. She had told him she was fine. He had already given her medicine to help her pains, and there was little he could do for that particular area.

Yet guilt gnawed at him that he had not done enough, not been careful enough, and she had been damaged in the process.

He left the hut, choosing to rinse the cloth in the stream rather than the pot he used to launder his garments when they were particularly soiled and required a soak over the coals.

The night was crisp, a firm reminder that soon the colder seasons would come and the snows would set in. But for now, he was glad for the nip against his flesh. He had righted his trous, but he was bare above them. It cooled his blood and allowed him to think more clearly.

He had a wife now. One he did not understand—not in the least.

He wanted his father. Someone to speak to, to understand, though he was not certain that he would have done so. But he had apprenticed under him, and he missed the carefully worded advice, the stern tone when a skill was of particular importance.

And Rykkon could certainly have used some of his wisdom when it came to Prim.

He would tell Rykkon to be kind. To remind him that she was the gentler between them, and that he must be tender, in both body and in heart.

Rykkon grimaced. He had tried to be, and still she bled.

He knelt beside the stream, remembering the view of her barely concealed breasts, and he bit back a groan, instead plunging the cloth into the water and scrubbing at it, determined to wash away the evidence of their congress. The elders would come early, he was certain of it, and he could tell them honestly that he had taken Prim to wife. There would be no cloth to show, no examination. Their solemn word was enough, but he would have to keep his temper should they press him further.

Prim might not be as he expected, not with her dead eyes and hesitant questions, but she was his and he would keep her.

Of that at least he was certain.

She was fully asleep when at last he returned, and he watched her for a time, studying her features. Her brow was smooth, her lips full, yet chapped from both her nibbling and exposure to the suns.

She was appealing, even now, and would be more so when she was healed and he no longer was faced with the evidence of her past. She was an enigma, and unknown, but they had time, and he would do his utmost to have patience. Even when her words stung, when her meaning was unclear, he would at least offer her that.

He climbed carefully into his bed, fairly certain that it would be more generous to allow her use of it while he slept elsewhere—at least until she grew more comfortable with his presence. But she had insisted that she wanted him to be her husband, if not perhaps her lover, and it was only natural that they share a sleeping space.

So with that assurance, he pressed a little closer, his arm brushing against the small of her back, the bedding unfamiliar in its warmth as he settled there.

This was to be married.

And as he lay awake, considering, he did not find it wholly unpleasant. Awkward, perhaps, and with much room for improvement. But overall, he was not displeased.

And with that determination, he slept.


	6. Learn

“Is your name of some significance?”

The second sun had yet to rise, and Rykkon still lay beside his new wife, finding this a very pleasant way to awaken. She had slept longer than he, likely aided by the manta, and he had debated ensuring his morning was a productive one with his desire to remain by her side.

The comforts of his bed had proven too powerful to resist.

At last her eyes had fluttered before they opened, her brow furrowing as she seemed to try to make sense of her surroundings. He did not greet her, made no sound, allowing her to adjust and come to the realisation on her own. She did not startle as he had half-expected, did not pull away from him when she noticed that her arm was pressed close to his. Instead she merely blinked at him, lying prone and still likely sleepy.

He enjoyed it.

And it allowed him time for questions.

He knew little of the names of her people. The leader was known, and he had gleaned others throughout the cycles of joining the traders in their exchange of goods, but hers did not seem quite in keeping with those he had known.

Prim hummed low in her throat, neither an affirmation nor a denial.

He looked at her more closely and tried again. “Were you named after a progenitor?” A common occurrence amongst his people. He was named after his father’s father, for remembrance. It was an honourable thing to be worthy of another to share in ones namesake.

Prim remained silent and his frustration rose, until finally, she spoke. “Prim wasn’t the name I was born with.”

Confusion replaced frustration. “An endearment then?” Some held such titles, but those were few. Names were important. They spoke of lineage, of strength, and were not easily put aside.

Prim snorted, rolling her eyes. “Not quite.” She did not seem keen on elaborating, but Rykkon was concerned. Her people held no qualms at punishing her physically, and he would not approve if he was causing her some inner hurt by using a name meant to deride her.

“What does it mean, then?”

She closed her eyes before she rolled over, the easier to look at him, he supposed, as she watched him carefully—the better to watch his reaction, or perhaps his understanding, he had yet to tell. “Prim and proper. It’s a saying from the Old Days. Means someone who likes to keep to manners and rules.”

His confusion grew. “But it was not meant a compliment? To be called that?”

She gave one of her little shrugs, something he was coming to suspect covered hidden wounds. “They didn’t mean it to be. Thought I was uppity because I didn’t like their games, didn’t like their ways.” She shook her head. “They were only children, and so was I, but the name stuck, until even the adults used it.”

“I will not use it then,” he suggested, hoping to please her. But instead, her lips thinned and he wondered what he had done wrong. “That is not to your liking?”

Prim sighed before looking at him again. “I’m used to it, and it doesn’t bother me anymore. Don’t see a point in switching now.”

He wanted to remind her that she had started a very different life—that if there was any such time to begin anew, it would be now. But her eyes were guarded, and he feared that to prod further would do more damage than cause healing, so he decided to remain silent.

On that subject at least.

“Are you well? After last night?”

A part of him did not wish to enquire, still feeling strange about the entire exchange, but the healer in him needed to know that she was not truly injured—not that he trusted her overmuch to tell him the truth in that regard. The sight of her blood upon the cloth still troubled him.

Prim sat experimentally, appearing to actually consider the question. He was disappointed at her actual reply. “Would you be angry if I said I was fine?”

He very nearly sighed at that, tired of that particular word and her insistence of its use when he could not know of its accuracy. “Possibly. It would depend on your truthfulness.”

She considered a moment longer then, still looking at him. “I’m sore, but I have no idea if that’s from the walk or from... you.”

Rykkon thought that strange—that both activities required very different muscles that might choose to protest now, but he did not press her further. She had admitted to some pain, and he could help her. He doubted she would like to hear a chastisement for not having spoken of it without prompting.

“Would you care for some manta?” Prim looked at him quizzically. “The drink from last night,” he clarified. “It helps with pain.”

Colour rose in her cheeks and she glanced away from him. “No, I don’t think so.” She did not tell him of her apparent embarrassment, did not explain why she should blush and find herself unable to look at him, but he supposed he could offer her a modicum of privacy. Even as curiosity burned at him.

“I need not make it so strong,” he offered gently, wondering if perhaps that was the cause of her concern. He was well aware that the elders would call upon him soon, whether by journeying to him, or sending a messenger to demand his own presence, and he would need her to have full use of her faculties.

If he had to go, he supposed he could leave her behind, but the thought filled him with dread. He could offer her no protection if he was far from her side, and while their bond created last night was absolute, there were still devious persons of his tribe that might see to put an end to their mating through violent ends.

Prim moved then, obviously considering his offer, and he watched her face carefully. If she would not be more forthcoming with her needs, he would simply have to become more proficient at gleaning them for himself.

“Maybe a little something,” she admitted grudgingly, almost as if it was a weakness to have done so—and from the way she looked at him, it appeared as though she half-expected him to find her so for asking.

Rykkon leaned forward and nuzzled his face against her neck, allowing his lips to drift across the skin there in a not-quite kiss. Later. When he had courted her properly and she was warm and willing and inviting. “It is a pleasure to provide for you,” he assured her when at last he pulled away. “You need not fear to ask something of me.”

He had hoped to see that his nearness was a pleasing thing to her, that she enjoyed it as a wife would a husband, but she appeared more uncomfortable than aroused or assured.

Patience. He was new to the ways of mating properly, and Prim was a strange one with her borrowed name and secrets. But she was the only one he would ever have, and he was determined to make their joining a pleasing one for both of them.

“I need the latrine,” she confessed when neither of them had moved for a long moment, and Rykkon rose, noting that she looked carefully away from his nakedness until he had retrieved his tunic and trous. He wondered if he should be insulted or not.

“Would you like an escort?” he asked rather stiffly, still considering his level of offence.

Prim stood as well, though she made no move to find her own leg coverings, instead simply shaking her head and walking perhaps a little tenderly toward the door. “No, thank you. I remember the way.”

It was difficult to watch her leave, and a very great part of him wanted to follow, to take her into his arms and carry her so whatever overused muscles did not have to suffer the walk—however short it seem to him. But there was something in her manner that suggested she desired some time alone, and he would have to respect her wish, even when it proved difficult.

He forewent the manta in favour of a milder selection. He sprinkled a liberal amount of willomn bark into a pot with water, watching the concoction turn a brilliant carmine, proving its potency.

For himself, he steeped some simple teshon leaves until they grew dark and the water heated. Satisfied that he would at least be able to share a drink with her when she returned, he sought something for their meal.

It was odd to think of what another might prefer, and he would have to ask what sorts of foods she was used to back at Mercy. He never ate much come morning, instead choosing to work steadily until hunger made him halt and find sustenance. It was less lonely that way, less a reminder that there were no kindly faces waiting him in his dwelling, none to share in the fruits of his forage.

He had found an outcropping of berleets the day before, still plump in their clusters of vibrantly hued skins. There were some benefits to being a healer, tramping through the forest with such frequency. His stores were commonly bountiful, if perhaps somewhat lacking in meat since he had to satisfy himself with smaller game since none of the hunters choose to accept him in their parties.

But he did not starve, and nor would Prim, and that was enough for him.

Along with the berleets, he fashioned little cakes and set them to bake upon the hearth, watching them closely for signs of burning. He did not want Prim to think him an incompetent at providing her nourishment.

When at last she returned, he saw the dampness in her hair that indicated she had at least partially bathed. She had not asked for a cloth to dry herself, and her shirt clung in very appealing places.

He swallowed thickly and turned away, going to their respective brews and pouring generous amounts into cups for them to imbibe.

“You cooked?” she said with some measure of surprise.

He hesitated before handing her the willomn, suddenly concerned that he had done something wrong—at least in her eyes.

“Are you not hungry?”

He held out her cup to her and watched her accept it before shuffling over to his workbench, sitting down carefully before watching the cakes by the hearth. “I would have done it,” she informed him, taking a sip of the willomn, evidently finding the taste more palatable than the manta for her nose did not crinkle. “I don’t want you to think I’m lazy. I’m not. I’ll help you around here in whatever you need.”

Rykkon stared down into the contents of his cup, a few errant leaves of the teshon having escaped the sieve. There was something in her tone that troubled him—a resignation mixed with almost a desperation that indicated that her offer did not come from a genuine desire to be helpful, and more a fear that he would tire of doting on her. “What do you think I shall do to you?” he asked quietly, not certain he wanted an answer.

She was not forthcoming with one, instead giving one of her shrugs and taking another sip of her drink. “Whatever you want. Isn’t that how this works?”

He grunted at that. He had tried to explain matings to her, at least the sort that his people practised, but evidently she required more time to truly appreciate the full extent of his commitment to her care and wellbeing. “I made our meals because you will require the nourishment and have yet to come to know my stores. If you would like to prepare them in the future, you are of course permitted to do so, but I do not...” he looked at her then, wishing she could believe him. “I am... most pleased by your company. But I did not bring you here to work, and I am certainly not going to punish you for not doing so when you are unwell.”

Especially when she was likely _unwell_ because of his own doing the previous night. Guilt tugged at his belly, forming a hard and uncomfortable knot that refused to be soothed by the teshon.

She did not hate him. She had seemed honest when she spoke those words, and he would allow that thought to comfort him.

“You’re different than I expected,” she mused from the bench, and he knew he should not enquire further—not when likely it would end in an insult due to her perception of his people. But he wished she would speak more freely with him, and if a thought was offered, it seemed a waste not to pursue it.

“Do you find the difference satisfactory?”

Prim smiled then, a thin thing, but genuine. “I did not expect such kindness.”

Meaning she had fully expected to tie herself to a brute who would beat her as bloody as her kin.

He turned away and went to the cakes, checking to see if they had baked sufficiently. A bit of ash clung to the bottom of one, though he did not like to think on what sort of marriage she believed she had entered, he knew he would be giving her the clean and untainted of the two.

“I wish I could say that you will meet nothing but kindness here, but I am afraid that would prove a falsehood.”

Prim sighed, her finger running over the edge of her cup as it had done the night before. “Your people seemed very angry. Were they... was that man right? The one I spoke to at the camp? Do you really not... marry my kind?”

Rykkon grew still. Careful. “Have you ever witnessed such a thing? Do we raid Mercy and steal away your females?”

Prim flushed before she glanced at him, her eyes firm and steady. “I almost wish you would.”

Rykkon had no reply to that, so he took the cakes away from the flames. They were thin, and likely chewy, but they would fill them both.

He handed her the plate with the cake and the berleets, and she thanked him, turning around on his workbench so the plate sat upon the surface. He did not know if it bothered him that she would do so—he did not eat there himself. That portion of his dwelling was reserved for his craft, for the careful mixing and brewing that could inevitably save a life. He usually sat before the fire or took his meals into the forest, lest the quiet serve as too deep a reminder that there was none for company.

Except now there was.

And she sat upon his workbench and ate at the table there.

And it was with some measure of surprise that he found himself joining her.

She made no objections, not that he expected that she would do so even if his presence proved a bother to her, but she slid over a little to make room for his much larger frame.

She began with the cake, he noted, and though her face betrayed no great pleasure in it, there also showed no disgust.

She swallowed, pushing at the berleets with her finger, though not yet tasting one. He doubted she had seen one before as they did not grow within the confines of the Wastes, and he deliberately picked up one of his own and placed it whole into his mouth to show her there was nothing difficult about it.

Prim mimicked him, this time her eyes widening as the flavour must have reached her tongue.

“Enjoyable?”

She nodded, taking another one.

He wondered at how satisfying it felt to have pleased her in such a small way. And yet it was.

“Why do you call it Mercy?” she suddenly asked between bites of berleet. She did continue to nibble at the cake, but with much less enthusiasm. He could not blame her, not when such was his preference as well.

“How did you come to live there?” He wondered what their young were taught. He knew the history well between their peoples, but that did not mean that the colonists maintained the truth after so many cycles had passed.

She looked up at him in some confusion. “I was born there.”

A smile formed on his lips, unbidden, before he carefully smoothed his features. She made an odd expression when he did so, and he determined it would be best not to smile in her presence again. Not if it unnerved her. “Your people, then.”

“Oh.” She sat a moment, considering. She suddenly appeared rather sheepish. “Most of the ship is a few leagues away from the oasis. So didn’t they just... start walking?” Start walking. As if his people were not involved at all—as if the colonists had been so capable when their dwelling was filled with flames, leaking poison into the very air. He knew the stories well, even if she did not, and the humans’ survival most certainly did not begin with _walking_. She must have noted his expression, for she quickly clarified further. “I never paid much attention when Desmond spoke of their arrival.”

Rykkon inclined his head. “It did not interest you? To know of the relations between our people?”

Prim looked away. “It wasn’t that,” she said at last. “It just seemed... rather far away. And when you’re preoccupied with survival and with just making it to the next day, it suddenly isn’t as important how we got to the camp.”

Rykkon took a bite of his cake,—chewy, as he had feared—considering. “Our warriors found the colonist survivors.”

Prim’s eyes widened in surprise. “And they didn’t just kill them?”

He would have been offended, had that not been precisely their intention. “No. A truce was formed, out in the Wastes, when it was determined that your people could be so easily contained.”

She grimaced at that, rubbing at her chapped flesh, soothed by his balms the night before, but evidently troubling her this morning. “I will give you more salve.”

Her fingers halted their motion and she nodded. “Thank you.” She was quiet for a while, apparently weighing the truth of his words, but when she turned and looked at him, the gratitude he had half-expected was absent, leaving behind only the deadened expression he was coming to equate with her. “And you thought that mercy? To leave us out there?”

Every time he had made the trek through the Wastes, had he not wondered similarly? The heat was nearly unbearable, only worsened when the winds came and began to blow all manner of dust and sands at such velocities that any bit of exposed flesh would be heartily abused by it. “You would not be alive today if they had not brought you to the camp.”

Her expression darkened a little, and she focused once more on her meal, her shoulders ever so slightly bowed. And though she made no suggestion of it, did not speak the words aloud, he wondered if that was precisely what she wished for.

And the thought troubled him more than he could say.

Yet before he could prompt her further—to garner her assurances that no harm would befall herself by her own hand—a voice from beyond his hut interrupted their meal.

“Rykkon, healer, approach!”

He stiffened. The voice he knew, but he had not expected him to actually appear here. A summons would have sufficed, and would have allowed them both time to dress and prepare.

Prim looked at him quizzically, a berleet poised just before her mouth. “Are they here about...” Her eyes flicked toward the bed, still rumpled from sleep.

“Yes,” he confirmed, sighing deeply as he did so. It would be rudeness itself to keep one of his status waiting upon the doorstep, and he could not refuse him entry—not when his position within the tribe was so tenuous.

He looked to his wife, still seated upon the bench, fingers slightly stained with juice and legs exposed. Dressed was preferable. But there was no time.

Rykkon stood and moved to the door, opening it wide in at least a show of welcome, though he felt little himself.

“Lorrak,” he acknowledged, bowing his head. “I did not expect you so early; I would have joined you in your home had you called for me.” It was difficult to present the signs of respect for an elder to one so young. But Lorrak had proven himself a cunning warrior, and the people had chosen to reward him in kind.

Lorrak responded with a bow of his own head, his face unreadable. “I am certain you would have, but I wished to see you both in a more... natural environment.” His eyes, narrow and pale, assessed him. “Have you an objection?”

Rykkon took a step backward, and gestured him inward. “Of course not.”

Though it would have been prudent to keep his attention solely on Lorrak for the extent of his visit, Rykkon could not help but glance at Prim as their guest entered the dwelling—saw her eyes widen, saw the berleet fall from her fingers as she took in the male’s large stature that diminished even Rykkon’s on considerable frame.

There were reasons Lorrak had been elected to the council of elders. His strength had been one of them.

Prim did not seem to know what to do, and Rykkon crossed over to her, holding out his hand and drawing her upward, lest she continue to remain seated in an elder’s presence. With gentle fingers, he urged her head downward so she made the customary bow.

Lorrak watched it all with careful eyes, his perusal of Prim’s exposed legs and Rykkon’s own sleeping attire a most pointed one, before they shifted to take in the state of the bed. “You have wasted little time, I see.”

Rykkon felt not even a little embarrassment, though he saw Prim’s cheeks flush, evidently understanding Lorrak’s implication even without the benefit of knowing the language he spoke.

“She is my wife,” he confirmed, his hand lingering on her neck. He had not noticed how fragile it looked, his long fingers and large palm seemed to dwarf it in comparison, and he grew all the more aware that here, in this place where physical strength was lauded, he was her sole protector.

And one of their most formidable warriors had already crossed the threshold.

Rykkon forced himself to calm. Lorrak had not yet indicated he meant either of them harm, and Rykkon could not in good conscience act before he knew with certainty that such was his intention. “We were enjoying a morning meal. Would you care to join us?”

Only Lorrak’s eyes shifted as they landed once more on Prim, the rest of him remaining perfectly still. “Why would you do this?” he asked, ignoring Rykkon’s own offer of hospitality. An offence on its own, but today was evidently not the day for certain formalities. “Must your entire bloodline be tainted with colonist blood?”

Rykkon straightened, though he willed his muscles into neutrality. “She is my mate, my wife. Any offspring will be welcomed.”

Lorrak’s head tilted ever so slightly to the side. “Will they?”

Rykkon forced himself from moving forward, from allowing his hands to find purchase around the elder’s neck. It would only cause the male to retaliate, both upon himself and on Prim. And he could not allow that.

“We are mates,” he repeated. “We stated our intent publicly yesterday, and last night I brought her under my full protection. There should be no need for this conversation.” Rykkon looked pointedly as Lorrak’s blade, ever strapped to his thigh. “Or were you sent with a different purpose?”

Anger flashed in the elder’s eyes. “Do not insult our ways, healer, lest you receive punishment.” Lorrak looked once more at Prim, his gaze giving a final assessment of her person. “I was sent to ascertain the extent of your bond, and am satisfied that you are true to your word. She is your wife, and all must live with the consequences.”

Rykkon wanted to argue. Wanted to remind Lorrak and all of the elders and villagers that his life was almost entirely separate from their own—that Prim’s presence here would affect them little. But such would be pointless when they were determined to treat her with suspicion and, likely, ridicule.

Lorrak made to leave, forced to bow his head lest he hit it on the too-low door frame. Rykkon followed, watchful, not certain that the exchange was truly over. He was gratified if it was—if the elders had enough sense to realise that a mating was a private commitment and not inclusive of comment or objection—but wariness lingered.

That perhaps Lorrak left only for a swarm of warriors to take his place.

“Do you intend to act against me?” he found himself asking, heedless of the wisdom of it.

Lorrak paused, turning back. “It is you who have acted against us.”

Rykkon stood firm, though he allowed his head to lower in deference, regardless of his desire for defiance. “That was not my intention. An opportunity for a mate presented itself, and I accepted. I meant no disrespect to our people.”

Rykkon could feel Lorrak’s shrewd gaze before he risked a glance upward. “You are fortunate that you have your knowledge, healer, for I am not certain that _our_ people would be so willing to overlook your selfishness without it.”

“I will care for them, as I have always done,” he vowed. “Nothing has changed.”

Lorrak looked over him, and Rykkon did likewise, seeing Prim out of the corner of his eyes, lingering in the shadows of the doorway.

“You are wrong, healer. Everything has changed.”


	7. Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in updating this! I'm in the throes of wedding and shower planning for my bestest friend and it's much more time consuming than I had anticipated! 
> 
> And in addition... this is now available on Amazon! (just search Mercy by Catherine Miller) So if you tire of my delays in updating, you now have the options of purchasing it in full. But if that's not what you wish, I shall continue posting here as well :)
> 
> Thank you so much for comments and kudos! This is a new genre for me, and I must say, I'm becoming quite the fan.

Prim was rather withdrawn when Lorrak departed and Rykkon once more entered their dwelling. She fidgeted a little, her hands worrying at the hem of her tunic, even as she busied herself with locating her trous and donning them, smoothing out the wrinkles with quick passes of her palms. A fruitless gesture, as their night upon the floor following their travels in her pack left them hopelessly crumpled.

And she avoided his eye, which was most troubling.

“Prim?”

She startled, though when she looked at him, he could ascertain no fear, no anxiety. Nothing at all.

He wanted to sigh to see her blank expression once more. “Yes?”

He was surprised she had not prompted him to speak of their visitor, to translate the conversation so she could understand her current relations with his people. But apparently she was content simply to worry in silence, and he wondered rather spitefully if he should leave her to her troubles since she would not turn to him for reassurance.

But he did not wish to be a spiteful husband, so he crossed over to her, taking her hand in his and leading her to the workbench, urging her to sit.

She did so with care, and it was a stark reminder that she was to be treated delicately.

“Do your ribs hurt?” She glanced up at him, her brow furrowed in confusion, obviously not expecting the question.

“Yes,” she confirmed, surprising him a little that she would do so.

“Did I... cause them further damage?” He had tried to be careful, keeping his torso carefully away from her bruises, away from the bindings that would support the tender bones.

Relief filled him when Prim shook her head. “No. They’re still just sore. You don’t... I don’t need you to feel bad about last night. Honestly. I told you before and I’ll say it again, I knew that was a part of marriage when I suggested it.”

He very nearly grimaced at that. “It should have been different.”

This was not the time to be discussing this. Their relations with his tribe were at best tenuous, and she needed to know of Lorrak’s visit, unhindered by words she could not possibly understand. And yet he did not seem capable of turning the conversation, not when she was speaking rather freely of such intimate matters.

She smirked, and he looked carefully for any signs of genuine amusement. There were none. So perhaps it was truly more of a grimace. His stomach clenched unpleasantly at the thought. “It was fine.” How he was growing to hate that word. “ _You_ were fine. I got to go to sleep a married woman, and that was enough for me.”

And maybe it should have been for him as well, yet it was not. Not when he had to rely on salves to slicken the way since there was no evidence that she welcomed him of her own desire.

“Do your females not...” This was absurd. He was a healer, had touched many a woman to help with a birthing and speak to her husband about waiting until she was ready to receive him again. Yet at the moment he would prefer chastising a warrior over asking his new wife if the females of her people were capable of pleasure.

And he had simply failed to provide it to her.

Causing her to bleed in the process.

He rallied his courage, forcing calm to overtake him as he approached this more as a healer would a case for study rather than a husband to his wife. “Do your females not feel... gratified when they relate with their mates?”

Prim blinked at him, and he was worried that he would have to explain the process—for his kind at least—when, to his surprise, she rolled her eyes. “Is that what you’re upset about? Really? A man was just in here, looking all to rights like he was going to slit both our throats, and you’re worried that I didn’t have an orgasm?”

She seemed to realise her tone, for she paled, quickly looking anywhere but at him. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she told him, stiffly. “It’s not my place to question you.”

Rykkon frowned at that. “If it is not _your_ place, then I do not know who possesses such a right.” He had not recognised the last word she used, this... _orgasm,_ but if she had understood his meaning, evidently she thought his concern for her pleasure a ridiculous one. And while he did not mind her speaking freely, it bothered him greatly that would be her response regarding such an intimate subject. Embarrassment fought with indignation. “Lorrak was here to ensure that you were truly my wife. He is satisfied. Therefore this seems a more pressing issue.”

She blinked at him again, processing his words. “So... that’s it then? I’m your wife and they’ll just accept that?”

Rykkon mimicked one of her shrugs. “Perhaps. That is not to say they can make things... difficult. It is not a pleasant thing, to be shunned, and even less so to be openly berated. Both are equal possibilities. And if someone believes they can succeed, there is always the possibility they will attempt to do one of us harm.” But his position was more secure than hers. It would be stupidity itself to harm the only male capable of saving a life they may one day actually value. Which meant that some rogue soul might ignore his caution and choose to hurt Prim, and that he could not allow. “It will not be an easy life, here, and until I better know the tone of the people, it is important you remain close to me. Do you understand?”

Prim nodded, still appearing troubled, yet he had no more assurances to give. He could not promise that she would only know kindness within the village—only within his dwelling. His hut could be their sanctuary, a place of safety when both their peoples despised aspects of their being, and even when she rolled her eyes at him, he was glad of her presence.

And he wondered if they had talked enough about Lorrak to return to the subject of their joining. He stared at her rather a long time, saying nothing and allowing her to answer his previous question on her own, but she seemed lost in her own thoughts and oblivious to his prompting.

He sighed, wondering if he had the ability to ask her again, when at last she spoke—though with some disappointment, he realised it did not refer to what he truly wished to know. “What can I do around here? To help?”

Rykkon very nearly sighed again. This conversation was growing tedious. “You will not be working until you are healed. I have expressed thusly to you before.”

Prim glanced at him. “You still sound upset.”

That was perhaps too strong a word. He was frustrated, his fingers still twitching to avenge the underlying threat to his new mate, and she would not answer him about the potential for her pleasure.

He turned to his work, choosing to ignore her until he had better control over his emotions. He did not wish to hurt her with his words—not when he wanted her to favour him.

“I don’t... I don’t know how to be when you’re angry with me,” she remarked softly from behind him. He placed a handful of grenut in a mortar and pressed forcefully, releasing the precious juices that could bring down a deadly fever.

He should deny that he was angry. Should tell her that it was permissible that she ignore him until such time that he could prove better company and not regret any of his responses. But instead he continued to work the grenut until his arm ached.

Until a gentle hand was laid upon it, and he stilled.

He turned then, to look at her, and some of the blankness had gone from her expression, replaced by wariness. And perhaps a little sadness. He hated it.

“I would run away when someone was angry with me,” she confessed quietly. “Out into the Wastes and collect those precious beetles your kind like so much.” He did not like to think of her working so very hard. Did not like to imagine the wounds on her fingers from their secretions, untreated by their fool of a healer. But still, he did not halt her speech. “I’d rather be sore for a few days from hard work than taking the brunt of someone’s misplaced anger.”

Rykkon waited, thinking most assuredly that she would ask him once again if he intended to hit her. Perhaps she would even give him some sort of permission if it meant he would cease being angry with her—the thought sickened him.

But it did not come, though her hand fell from his arm and she took a careful step backward. “I don’t have anywhere to run now, and I’d rather you weren’t upset with me. So what can I do to resolve this?”

Rykkon frowned, very nearly returning to his pestle and continuing to grind the grenut. But something in her eyes held him fast, and he took a moment, considering. “You could answer my questions when I ask them.”

Perhaps it was an unfair bargain. He had already informed her there were subjects he would not soon be speaking of, and yet he would extract such a promise from her when it came to her own past. He could justify it in his own mind—that he was a healer and would need to know what wounds, both internal and external, he would be delicately avoiding as her mate. But it was more selfish than that. He wished to _know_ her, to understand, and he felt blind and thwarted in regard to her.

A feeling he did not appreciate.

It was Prim’s turn to frown. “I answer you.”

Rykkon gave her a pointed look. “You deflect, or you remain silent completely. That is not at all the same as giving a simple answer.”

Her shoulders slumped, and he wondered if he had hurt her somehow with his observation—precisely why he had wished to avoid conversation with her for a time.

“What if you do not like the answers? What happens then?”

He tried to imagine what she could say that would cause him to reject her. Nothing immediately came to mind, though with a twist of his belly, he remembered the disgust he felt at the prospect of her abandoning one of her young. So perhaps their mating was not infallible. “I would prefer the truth, in all things,” he told her, knowing even as the words fell that he believed them. He did not wish for a manufactured wife, one carefully built upon what he might desire most, her history expunged lest it bother him. He wanted to know _Prim_ , and it troubled him when she withdrew so completely.

Prim sighed. “Some things are more difficult to talk about. Surely you can understand that.”

“Like pleasure?” he pressed grudgingly, only to see her smile ruefully. He did not like that smile, not when it felt like she was dismissing his concerns once again.

“Still on that, are you?”

He grunted then, and did return to his grenut. This was a fruitless talk and perhaps it was better that they continue as they were. Strangers need not quarrel, need not bicker over tasks and certainly not over _relating_. Prim could continue to shy away from him, to welcome him to her with her body belying each of her assurances that he was wanted. It certainly seemed enough for her.

Even as something deep within him hurt just to think of such a life.

“I don’t know what to say,” she nearly whispered, and it only made it more difficult for him to keep his temper. He wanted her truths, her hurts, so he could help and mend and comfort, and she thought it unimportant.

Thought _him_ unimportant.

So he ignored her in turn and the silence was only interrupted by the continued thump of the pestle against the mortar, and the bubbling as his brews turned into salves.

But though they spoke little, Rykkon remained tremendously aware of Prim’s every movement. He wondered vaguely if she knew how often he watched her, or was even aware that he could see her so clearly from this vantage when to all appearances his back was turned. She seemed ready to approach him a few times, her brow furrowed and her hands clasped, but she would give the thinnest of sighs and return to their bed, perched upon the edge as she gathered her thoughts once again. Her hands would smooth the blanket at times, and he rather thought she wished to straighten the blankets properly, but instead she simply sat, quiet and thoughtful, while he worked.

He would need to feed her again.

The first noon was approaching and she required extra nutrients to promote her healing, and even with things so strained between them, he would not see her starve.

He wanted to be a good mate.

He simply wanted her to realise that.

When he moved to his stores and began collecting ingredients, Prim appeared, wary but almost... hopeful. “I can help.”

He should tell her to sit back down—that she was still sore and he was not so much the brute she must think of him that he would ask her to fix meals while still recovering. But he could not ignore those eyes as they stared up at him, and he found himself giving her a tour of the various items of his pantry. Grains, meats, spices, herbs, fruits and the like, all carefully stored in their respective pots so as to last the colder seasons. Prim looks surprised at the variety and amount, and he was glad that boredom had prompted him to collect so much now that he had a second person to look after.

And maybe someday, a third.

Lorrak had meant the subject of offspring to be a source of dishonour—a reminder of what their combined species could produce if young was granted to them. And perhaps Rykkon had given less thought to young than he had a mate, but even now the prospect did not displease him. It would mean an apprentice, someone to share in his work and be a companion as they navigated the forests in search of illusive ingredients.

Not a displeasing notion at all.

And perhaps that relationship would not be so difficult as the one with their mother.

“I don’t know what to make,” Prim admitted sheepishly as he cut a length of dried meat. “We didn’t have things like this back at camp.”

“You had meat,” Rykkon disagreed, knowing full well that while this had come from a different beast—a smaller, more easily subdued animal that he could bring down himself—she would not know the difference from that which his village provided them.

Prim huffed out a breath. “Fine then. _I_ did not have things like this.”

Rykkon wondered at that. “Did you not receive a portion?”

She gave an odd combination of a shrug and a shake of her head. “If I did, it was usually confiscated very quickly.”

He opened his mouth to ask why she did not stab the thief with a blade, but quickly closed it again. If she would not defend herself thusly after personal harm, it was not likely she would do so when meat was stolen from her. “What did you eat then?”

She looked at him carefully for a moment, evidently considering something, before she decided it was safe to speak. “They grow a type of grain there. One of the few things they managed to seed. And then there’s the fruit that grow in the trees. In some places it’s difficult to walk because they’ve planted the trees so close together. And then there’s always what you can find in the Wastes.”

Rykkon grunted. “They are called that for a reason. There is nothing.”

Prim took a piece of dried meat that he held out to her, bringing it to her lips and chewing thoughtfully. “That depends on how hungry you are.”

He supposed it did. He had known many difficulties, but hunger had never been one of them. He might not have been welcome in the communal hunts, but his father had taught him well, both in the arts of healing and way of self-sufficiency. He knew how to maintain his home so the roof proved strong against the mightiest storm, and how much wood for the fire was needed to see him through the cold seasons.

But as he regarded Prim’s own worn clothing, he was forced to realise that the colonists had no such teachers to pass on necessary knowledge. And, if his own observations proved correct, Prim’s progenitors seemed more willing to hurt her than teach her how to live with some modicum of comfort.

“Is it difficult for you to talk about such things?” he asked, gladdened for her effort, but mindful that it might be.

Prim gave another half-shrug, taking another bite of meat. “Just don’t really see the point. Am I going back there?” she looked at him then, quite seriously.

Rykkon frowned. “If you are asking if you would be permitted to visit, it is... possible. Though likely not with any great frequency.” In truth, he was not certain that they could do so at all. It was doubtful the traders would welcome their presence, and Rykkon did not know if he was willing to risk the journey on their own. “Or if you mean to ask if I shall reject you and my people would return you there, I have no intention of doing so.”

And it was far more likely that if misfortune befell him and he came to an early end, it was far more probable they would simply kill her rather than make a special journey to see her back to her people.

But it did not seem helpful to tell her that, so he remained silent on that particular musing.

Prim nodded, accepting his word—though he wondered how fully she did so. “Then I guess I just don’t see the point of bringing all that up. Isn’t it enough to know that my life wasn’t the greatest before I came here?”

Perhaps another male would have agreed with her—that life only truly began after their mating had begun, but Rykkon did not agree. Not when his Prim was everything that was strange.

“Is it not enough to know that it is important to me to know of it? To know your history and of your life, and for that reason alone, that should make it worth speaking of?” It was possible he expected too much, that she viewed the depth of their bond differently, but he should hope he would make the same concession for her, should she ask it of him.

Though he did not relish speaking of his past either. Not when it would require explaining why he should never have been allowed a mate to begin with.

Prim opened the jar of berleets, and he wondered if she took some because she favoured the taste or simply because they were the only thing that proved familiar. She looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for some sign of permission before she took any, but Rykkon waited. He could continue to anticipate her needs, but he wanted her to feel comfortable asking—to vocalise that which was important to her.

She sighed, and for a moment he feared she would give up and return the lid to its proper place, pushing away her desire so she would not have to ask it of him. But instead she merely glanced away, her expression carefully concealed. “May I have some?”

“Yes,” he affirmed, though some of the joy seemed to leave her as she took a handful from the jar. He wondered if he had wronged her by not assuring her sooner that she was welcome to any of his stores. “You do not need to ask. If the stores run low, we shall merely have to gather more.”

Assuming any could be found. That particular fruit had been an unexpected find, though he had plucked the bushes clean lest he be unable to find his way to them again—or if any of the villagers should discover its location before he could return there, and the precious berleets would be gone.

But he did not begrudge sharing them. Not in the least.

“Is that so hard to believe?” He should not have asked, not when things were beginning to settle between them once again, but he found the words escaping before he could think better of it.

Prim played with a berleet in her palm, and for a moment he thought she would ignore him. But eventually she sighed. “Have you ever lived with someone who was angry all the time? Over every little thing?”

Rykkon shook his head slowly. He had certainly witnessed anger more times than he would care to admit—but that stemmed from his kin when he would venture into the unwelcoming village. “No,” he confirmed, pushing away thoughts of his own upbringing. They were not important. Not when he was attempting to understand his new wife.

“I’m glad about that,” she remarked, and he looked to see any measure of deceit. If he had experienced similar circumstances, she would have to explain less to him. And yet, despite his worry, she seemed to be most truthful, and she continued without more prompting. “You have to think through every action carefully, because you never know what it is that will set them off. Is it because you made too much for a meal? That you made too little and couldn’t share when he came back early? So then when you try to leave, try to tell someone that he’s angry and unreasonable and he hurts you, they remind you that your mother’s dead and we all grieve in our separate ways.”

“Your people are stupid,” Rykkon reminded her.

She smiled at that, slight though it might have been. “Yes. They are.” She took another bite of meat, leaning against the wall of his dwelling as she did so, not quite looking at him. “So, I’m sorry if I ask too many times what you want, or if something’s fine for me to do. But I’m... I’m not used to it being all right to simply... be.” Her eyes flickered up to meet his, even as her next words wounded him, though he was certain she had not meant them to do so. “And I do not know you yet. I’m trying, but I think... it’ll take time for me to fully believe all that you say. Everything is so different from... before.”

It was true of course. They hardly knew one another, but that was precisely what he was attempting to rectify. “Then do not thwart me when I make an enquiry,” he told her, trying to keep every bit of petulance from his tone. “How are we to trust one another if I am not permitted to ask about you?”

“And me to you?” There was something pointed about her look, perhaps just the smallest bit challenging, and he had to push away the rankled feeling. She was right to ask things of him—it showed that she was interested, and that could not possibly be bad. Except that it could. The more she knew, the more she could dislike. The more details of his past that were made known, the higher the likelihood that she could come to see their mating as a mistake.

“Do your people ever sever bonds?”

Prim flinched, and any hint of challenge left her features, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Of course.”

He wondered at her reaction, but said nothing in regard to it. “Then it is possible that when you know more of me, you would seek to undo our mating. But there is no such provision here, and it would only... hurt me that you should attempt it.”

Prim frowned. “You think... if I know more about you, I’ll want to leave?”

Rykkon tried to mimic one of her little shrugs. “It is possible.”

She continued to study the floor. “From what I have... experienced so far with you, you are one of the best men I have ever known. If not the _best_.”

“Then I am grieved you have known so few examples of proper behaviour. I have simply tried to be hospitable.” He warred with himself, whether or not he should mention it when doing so had caused their spat to begin with, but he risked it. Needed her to know, to understand, that last night had not been what he would have liked.

That he was sorry to have hurt her.

“And I was not a proper mate to you. Not truly. Not when you received only pain from me when we joined.”

Heat suffused her cheeks, and she looked anywhere but at him. “Must you bring that up again?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he stressed, his voice becoming urgent. “Because I wish for you to know that I saw the blood and that it was never, _never_ my intention that you be hurt. Not from me. Never in that way. And you will not permit me to speak of pleasure, or to ask if your kind is even capable of experiencing such gratifications, not without dismissing me entirely.”

Prim set down the last of her food, and he wondered if the subject, the memory of what she must have experienced when he was inside her, had caused her to lose her appetite. His own belly roiled to consider it.

“My people... we do not talk about these things.” Prim said at last. “We _do_ them, some with greater frequency than others,” she remarked rather ruefully, “but we do not discuss these... particulars.”

“Oh,” Rykkon breathed, realising too late that all this time, he had been bringing offence against her with the speaking of it. “Forgive me. I did not know. I will not insult you by asking of it again.”

Except there were things he needed to know, things he had yet to understand.

And yet her people did not speak of them.

They simply _did_ them.

Rykkon stilled, at last a bit of comprehension coming over him.

His wife would not speak of her potential for pleasures, nor of the blood he had seen.

But if he understood her correctly, he could explore, could ascertain these answers for himself when next they joined.

He merely had to select the proper time to do so.


	8. Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long delay! Planning my best friend's wedding got derailed a bit by an unexpected surgery... which lead to a looovely scar on my chest for the day-of! Trying not to mind it too much... But anyway! Again, I'm terribly sorry, and enjoy! 
> 
> (And if you've purchased this story on Amazon, even more thanks!)

Rykkon decided now was not the time for such explorations. Even though the prospect was an exciting one, the promise of such intimacies demanding the utmost of his attention, his wife was sore and still in bandages, and it seemed doubtful that she would be quite so receptive when her body still protested with hurts.

So he would wait. However begrudgingly.

Prim was acclimating fairly well—at least, that is what he told himself. She helped select their meals, taking small nibbles of his different stores, trying to decide what she favoured and what might possibly combine into something more pleasing.

He had expected her to take an interest in their food, since she had made it so plain that her meals had been scarce and only allowed under the potential for violence, and even now she seemed to marvel a little that he would permit her such unfettered access to his goods. But as the suns rose and fell, she appeared to truly accept it, one morning even rising before he did so as to begin preparing their meal and brewing teshon for them both—a favourite of hers when she no longer needed neither willomn nor manta to function without much pain.

What he had not expected, was for her to take interest in his healing. It had started when one of the villagers had come to him for aid, wary and hovering at the door, her eyes darting around the interior of his dwelling for sign of Prim. His wife was settled on his workbench, staring as he chopped and brewed, not yet making enquiries, but her eyes clearly holding question. He had determined to wait. It was not common for a wife to learn her husband’s craft, but he saw no harm in it. Perhaps his people would consider her with more respect if she held the potential for healing as well. But he would not presume upon what held her interest, instead going about his work and allowing her to decide what she would ask of him.

Until Mincel appeared at his door, and the time for questions had passed.

“Mincel,” he acknowledged when he allowed her entrance. None of his people had come since Lorrak’s visit, and he realised with some small surprise that it felt almost odd to be looking down at a female face that looked so much more like his own. Apparently in these few days with human company, he had been adjusting as well. “What ails you?”

They rarely came for any other reason, and throughout the cycles as the sole healer to his kin, he had discovered that it led to much less awkward exchanges when he prompted them to hasten to the medicine.

Mincel looked at Prim, not openly hostile, but not pleased either to see her sitting there. Prim was not looking at her, not exactly, and Rykkon wondered at how much privacy Mincel would require. “She does not understand our words,” he reminded her. “I would prefer she remain where she is.”

He doubted that a raiding party was stationed outside his door, Mincel serving as an effective distraction, but he would take no such chances. Perhaps in future, should one of his kin require more _intimate_ healings, he would ask Prim to wait for him by the stream. But it was too soon, his trust not yet firm enough in his own people, and he wanted her where he could see that she was well.

Mincel did not openly object, though she did not look exactly pleased.

She held up her wrist for his inspection. “It hurts.”

Rykkon approached, his fingers careful and assessing as he manipulated the bones, watching as she winced when he pressed. The bones were aligned, though the bruising and swelling suggested genuine damage had been done beyond a simple sprain. “Have you experienced a trauma?”

Mincel bowed her head in confirmation. “I fell. A rock did not seem pleased with where I landed.”

Rykkon stifled a smile. “It may be fractured, and I would like to secure it to ensure it heals properly. Have you any objection?”

Mincel’s features were tight, and he realised that her original assessment of _hurts_ was perhaps too simple of one. “Would you like something for the pain?”

Her expression softened. “Please.”

Rykkon released her arm, turning to his stores. Prim continued to watch him, and he wondered what she saw as he interacted with Mincel. Would she be impressed with his skills? He hoped so. “Did Kondarr accompany you?” he asked Mincel.

She looked down at the floor, clearly ashamed. “It is not that he does not trust you, healer, he just thought it best to come along to see that I was well. Did not take another tumble.”

Rykkon did not know if he believed her words, but he accepted them. And his rightness to keeping Prim precisely where she was. “Then you will be all right with something a little stronger.” He would not have given her a cup of manta and expected her to stumble through the forest to her home alone. But her husband was a competent one, and he would see her home properly. “Would you care for a brew now, or wait?” he belatedly asked, realising that she perhaps would prefer not to imbibe in his company. In Prim’s. But apparently the pain outweighed her natural wariness, “Now, please.”

Rykkon set to brewing, bringing her a cup when it had finished, which she drank gratefully. He also presented her with a pouch of additional leaves for later. “Not too much,” he cautioned. “You will know when you have need of it.”

Mincel bowed her head again, and allowed him to wrap and support the delicate wrist bones with a splint, listening to his instructions with care, even as her eyes began to become glassy as the pain left her. Rykkon nearly chuckled at that, so typical was the sight in his work. “Do you understand it all?”

Mincel nodded and he escorted her outside, his hand upon her arm only until they came to the exterior, where he quickly released her as Kondarr approached. “Well?”

“You were right to bring her here, but I have supported the bone and with rest she will heal nicely.”

Mincel walked to her husband’s side, and Rykkon watched as Kondarr wrapped his arm about her waist, both a support and a claim. While their marriage had begun as a practical one—Mincel had young that required more meat and protections than she alone could provide—from the way Kondarr watched her, there seemed to be more affection behind his expression than Rykkon would have anticipated.

“Did he treat you well?”

Rykkon had no doubt that if Mincel suggested otherwise, he would soon be avoiding blows. But she bowed her head and rested it against Kondarr’s arm, the manta dulling the pain and leaving a need for sleep in its wake. “He was very good,” she assured her mate, holding up the pouch of additional leaves. “Gave me something to ease the pain, and I have more in case it comes back again.”

Kondarr grunted, taking the small packet and tucking it into the pouch about his waist, evidently noting the way she swayed somewhat on her feet. And without consulting her, he picked her up completely, bowing his head once rather begrudgingly in Rykkon’s direction. “My thanks, healer,” he intoned.

Rykkon bowed his own head. “You have my welcome,” he assured them both. “Always. That has not changed.”

Both looked rather doubtful, though Mincel’s did not hold it for long as she preferred to rest her face against Kondarr’s chest, sleepy and trusting, surrendering to sleep even before they had fully departed Rykkon’s land.

Kondarr hesitated for a moment, and Rykkon thought that he might speak, but instead he merely gave another grunt and departed, his wife tucked neatly in his arms.

And something in Rykkon began to ache as he watched them disappear into the trees.

He wanted that.

He wanted a wife, warm and pliant, to nuzzle into him with every assurance that he would keep her safe and secure while she slept. Prim slept beside him, as she had always done after their first night together, but it was different. She was stiff, her muscles tensed until at last sleep took her. Cold. Unwelcoming. And though it should not, it hurt him. She had claimed that he was allowed to join with her as he wished, and while he reminded himself firmly that she was still in the process of healing, that of course she should be nervous if his hands, his movements brushed against bruises that protested his every action. But she would not speak of it, and he had promised not to bring up the subject again lest he insult her further.

But that did not keep him from desiring her, desiring that things be different.

Especially when he lay beside her, sleepless and wanting. He tried to convince his arms to move, to pull her close and simply hold her—that the rest could wait until she was more ready to receive him. But he did not trust himself to be content with merely that, so he forced himself to stillness, to waiting. But it was tiresome.

Yet even so, he would never say he would rather she be gone from him. Not when he had become so accustomed to taking his meals with another, to coaxing out small bits of what together compiled his wife.

She did not much care for sweet things. She preferred her teshon to be brewed to near blackness, the flavours all the stronger. He had permitted her to select two of his tunics from his trunk for her to wear as she willed until he could provide her with her own coverings. And of those, she had taken the two oldest, the most worn.

Concerned by that, that she should think him a selfish mate that would dictate he keep the best things for himself, he plied her for her reasoning.

She had blushed, her fingers stroking the edge of the fabrics held carefully between her hands. “Did I choose wrongly? I can try again.”

He nearly sighed at that, but he stifled his natural reaction. Her responses were as deeply ingrained as his occasional frustration with them, and she had asked him for patience. And, even when it seemed impossible, he would attempt to give it. “No. But there are finer and newer options, and if they appeal to you more then you should have them.”

Prim looked down at his trunk again, though she made no move to make different selections. “They are very fine,” she confirmed. “But these are the softest and... I like the way they feel.”

Well. That he certainly could not deny.

And when he re-entered his home, Mincel and Kondarr long having departed, it was to find Prim still upon the workbench, wearing one of his too-large tunics and a pair of her old trous, little of them visible beneath the length of his— _her_ —upper covering.

Something in him ached again to see her so attired, much as it had done since he had gifted them to her. But now it was a little sharper, and bit more pronounced, and he hoped it quieted soon. It would not do to grow anxious and irritated with something she could not yet change.

“They have gone,” he informed her, simply to have something to say as he entered. Her head did not rise to greet him, nor did her eyes leave the floor, and he wondered what she was thinking about so deeply.

But she did not seem willing to share those thoughts, so he turned to clean his work-space, rinsing out the pot where he had brewed the manta, the little cup to follow before being returned to its shelf. All the while he felt Prim’s gaze upon him, yet whenever he glanced back at her, it was to find her resolutely studying the floor.

He made no enquiries, simply worked in silence, until finally her voice broke through the silence.

“How did her wrist get like that?”

Rykkon halted in his tidying, the question not what he would have expected, but he saw no harm in answering it. “She fell.”

Prim looked up at him then, her eyes wide and haunted. “Are you sure?”

How was he to explain this to her? He had tried to do so, knew with certainty that only time and healing of her own would allow her to believe that his people were not like the idiotic kind she came from. And he was particularly glad that she did not speak his words so she might never mistakenly suggest in Kondarr’s hearing that perhaps Mincel’s injuries were a result of his own hand.

“We do not harm our mates,” Rykkon reminded her gently, infusing as much truth as he could into his words. “And I would not insult her by claiming a falsehood when I had no reason to believe it to be so.”

Prim did not appear convinced. “But how do you _know_? Have you seen them together? What if she’s being hurt and this was her one chance to come for help and you just... sent her back?”

Rykkon dropped the cloth he was using to dry his brew-pot, crossing to her side and taking her face between his hands—now seeming over-large and coarse against her own small features. Gentleness. Tenderness. That is what she needed from him. “Not everyone is you, and you do my people a disservice to think the situations are the same.”

She looked disgruntled at that, but he was not yet ready to release her. “I’m not trying to insult them. I’m just saying, Desmond has a pretty interesting idea of what our people do and don’t do, and it isn’t always based in reality. Are you _sure_ that she’s not being hurt at home?”

He recalled the look in Kondarr’s eye as he regarded his mate, and he suddenly wished Prim had been a bit more bold and gone to the door to witness it for herself. But she had remained here, questioning and uncertain, drawing all sorts of conclusions that would eventually be proven false. “You have not seen her with her husband. He cares for her, more so than I had even realised, and to suggest that he would harm her in such a way...” Rykkon shook his head, the words distasteful on his tongue. He allowed his hands to fall away, though he remained close. “You would do well to assess people’s ways for what they are, not what you assume they will be.”

With that, he returned to his work, trying to smooth over his disgruntled feelings. He was certain that had not been her intent, that she spoke from a genuine concern for Mincel’s wellbeing, but the evidence of her continued wariness gave him pause. He had thought she had been acclimating fairly well, her movements a bit more free, some of her actions instigated of their own accord rather than by his direction or permission, but apparently she still harboured doubts.

Time amongst them would prove helpful, when she could spend the day watching their interactions and see for herself that the females were treated well and with respect—they would permit nothing less.

But while he had thus far defended his people, did not want her to think they were as hers had been, they possessed their own faults—which that same time would most certainly also show her.

He had mentioned the potential for shunning, but he did not think she truly understood the lasting damage that such could bring. And even now, he was uncertain that now was the time to enlighten her—not when she was still so new to his world, and he would save her from that reality as long as possible.

Prim was quiet for a long while, apparently considering his words, and when next she spoke, it was with a note of apology. “I don’t mean to insult any of your people. Really. I just...”

And to his absolute horror, suddenly her eyes began to leak, her breath heaved and choked, and he could do naught but stare at her. How was he to improve her airways? He had an herb that would stimulate the lungs, but he was afraid of using it upon her—not until he was better familiar with her physiology.

Her legs, however, seemed to function properly, for she rose, disappearing from his dwelling as she ran from him, and concern warred with his confusion, but his need to heal, to care for, overrode any trepidation.

Her speed surprised him, as he did not see her on the path, and he grew anxious that perhaps she had run in the opposite direction. He halted, listening, his eyes skimming the forest for any sign of movement. There were a few birds, flitting amongst the upper branches as they cheerily announced his failure as a mate, and with a growl he strode in the direction of the stream, hoping she had not been so foolish as to have gone elsewhere.

To his relief, he found her seated by the waters, her face and the strands of her hair nearest it damp and in places still dripping. She rubbed at it absently with her sleeve, and he watched her carefully for any further sign of distress. But she seemed calmer, her breath perhaps possessing a small shudder, but she did not appear close to suffocating from it.

“Are you well?” he asked, stopping a short distance away. He watched carefully for any further signs that her eyes held an excess of liquid, but there were none. Her face appeared perhaps more red, and he noted the necessity for more burn salve. The suns were high, the rays reaching through the trees and wrapping her in their warmth, and evidently she singed more rapidly than he had previously realised.

It was little wonder that her flesh had been in such disrepair, if she truly was as delicate as she appeared.

Prim was not looking at him, preferring to brush at her face and hair. “I’m fine. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Rykkon was not certain of what he _had_ seen, but she, as always, did not seem to wish to discuss the matter. He sighed. “Do you require aid?” He was not certain of what sort he offered. Potions and medicine were his comfort, had been for many cycles when they were his only company. But he was a husband now, and it seemed there were other duties he must fulfil as well. “I doubt you will wish to speak of it, but do you know the cause of your reaction?” While it was rare, some mothers brought their young to him, troubled and frightened when their breathing became short and raspy, and it was determined that some foods must be avoided for their safety. But he had never seen such an ailment in one so old, the affliction typically passing fairly quickly. But he had been exposing Prim to all sorts of new and untried items, and perhaps her system was akin to one of their young, teeth fresh in their mouths.

Prim flushed, brushing away his concern as he had known she would. “I just do everything wrong, that’s all. I’ll be better.”

Rykkon frowned. “That is an untruth.”

Prim glanced at him, and he was glad he had stopped a few paces from her, lest her neck be forced to bend at an uncomfortable angle so she could do just that. “Is it? I can’t help you with much beyond picking food out of containers, and even that you would do better yourself since you actually know what they _are_. I can’t help you with your work, not when your patients look at me like I’ll infect them with something colonist just by being near me.” Rykkon opened his mouth, ready to inform her that Mincel’s reaction was not unexpected, but shut it just as quickly as continued. “And I can’t even be a proper wife!”

Truly baffled now, Rykkon pursed his lips. “Explain.”

She looked up at him, her expression exasperated. “I may be new to relationships, but I’m not a complete idiot. Every woman in the colony knows that a man isn’t happy if he’s not getting to...” words seemed to fail her, for she struggled to find one to suit her purpose, her cheeks reddening even further. An impressive feat, that. “Getting to _relate_ ,” she said at last. Rykkon’s frown grew. “And how long do you think you’ll put up with that? Having a woman underfoot, eating your food and being generally useless?”

His words meant nothing to her, that was becoming obvious. He had offered her assurances that he thought her an adequate mate, that he was gladdened simply by her company. She was not burdensome, despite what falsehoods she was currently speaking, and he found her presence in his dwelling a generally pleasant one. But he also did not know what actions would prove her wrong, not when he was not yet prepared to _relate_ as she so put it. He knew quite well she needed further healing first, but he was beginning to realise that perhaps not doing so was causing her some previously unconsidered emotional distress.

A strange thought.

“I cannot say that I am pleased with how you view me.”

Prim flinched, then sighed, then looked down at her hands.

“I am not one of your males. I am not going to cast you out for not yet being ready to receive me... to desire me. That is as much my error in not courting you properly so that you would do so. I had thought it... prudent to give you time to heal. And I do not find you useless. You are simply new and have much to learn of a life you are wholly unaccustomed to.”

Prim fiddled with her hands. “Why are you so understanding? When all I seem to do is think the wrong things about... everything?”

Rykkon moved closer, settling down beside her, his hand settling on her shoulder. Delicate, yet strong, his wife. Strong in courage, strong in will, but perhaps weak in other ways. “Because I have a mate who has been hurt, and I am a healer. Because I listen and try to understand what little you say to me. Someday you will trust me, will accept that this is your home now and you will be the only wife I shall ever know—and that I would ask for no other, even if I could.” He allowed his hand to drop, settling it near hers upon the bank, words failing him. He did not know what else to say, but knew from her actions that he was failing her as a mate.

And was startled when he felt a hand settling atop his own.

He stared down at it, not daring to move too quickly lest she move it away again—lest she apologise for touching her own husband. Prim was not looking at him, instead looking over at the stream, at the glistening waters that gurgled pleasantly as they passed. “I should like to learn things. To understand what it is you do so maybe that... someday I could learn to heal myself, too.”

It was an odd request, at least to him. Perhaps other mates shared in their trade, but he had not heard of such things—his mother had no great interest in learning of salves and droughts, more frequently complaining that the pots she needed for cooking were being put to use for something entirely different.

But he could deny her nothing. Not when she asked so little of him.

“Very well,” he affirmed, trying to decide if she would like the lesson to begin now. But he had learned through experience, through chopping and brewing and foraging alongside his father, and all of such would require movement.

Something he was loath to do when her hand was still resting upon his, the longest touch she had ever given him. Flesh against flesh was a pleasant thing, he decided. He had known it when he had first joined with her, memory turning his muscles tense as he recalled the feel of her, so warm and soft against him.

But this was of a different sort. For her to touch him of her own accord—it was a beautiful thing.

And something he wanted to treasure and encourage in the future.

“And... should I be learning your language? Would that help for when people come? I know... I know you said they wouldn’t accept me, and that’s fine, but I don’t want them to reject you because of me.”

He turned his hand so he could grip hers gently, hoping she would believe his words. “They already view me with mistrust, and that is nothing of your doing. If you should like to learn I can... attempt to teach you, but it is a difficult thing and I would not have you discouraged. I do not mind using your tongue.”

Yet he would prefer his own.

But there was also a part of him that wanted to keep her ignorant of the things his people would inevitably say. They would likely only be hurtful, and while she could tell from their expressions that she was an outsider—unwelcome—if she wished to learn, he would aid her.

Her head tilted slightly and her brow furrowed. “Has one of my kind tried to learn before?”

Rykkon stilled, considering his words carefully. “Yes,” he admitted at last. He would not lie to her. “Without much success.”

He felt her eyes upon him, watchful and considering, but she did not ask further. He almost wished she would, so he could prove that she was allowed to ask him things, to know him, even when the subjects were painful and he did not seem able to speak of them of his own volition.

But she did not.

And a part of him was grateful for that too, if it meant he would not have to speak of it at all.

“I would still like to try, I think.”

“Very well,” he said again, hoping she would see that her requests would be accommodated whenever possible. He should begin with a lesson, point to the landscape about them and identify them in his words, helping her through the precise sounds until they at least possessed a resemblance to his own.

But instead he found himself simply looking at her, something in him tightening and prompting, the hand not currently surrounding hers coming to stroke her cheek, already losing some of its redness. Perhaps not from exposure to the suns, then.

“Do you think you could be happy here, with me? Not merely grateful to be away from the rest of your people and their idiocy but... happy for its own sake?”

Happy with _him_. Because she could learn to care for him, to want him, to find his home a pleasing place to share.

It should not matter. She had asked if his kind knew of marriages built upon convenience, and he had supplied the example of Mincel and Kondarr. But even they seemed to have kindled some affection, and... he wanted it.

Needed it.

With her.

And for one devastating moment he feared she would simply say, ‘Does it matter?’, so dismissive of that which mattered to _him_. But instead she turned, perhaps a little startled, perhaps a little frightened, silent for a long while before finally offering her a tenuous smile.

Thin, and too small.

But real.

“Yes. Yes, I think I can.”


End file.
